OldEnglish
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2001
- Messages
- 235
- Points
- 18
First, again, I’d like to say thank you to everyone for the wonderful comments in my last post. I enjoy discussing writing and of course I enjoy discussing tickling, so any time you’re able to marry the pair is a win-win in my book.
We’ve had a good round of COVID and other various illnesses go through the OldEnglish house the last few weeks, so my time on the TMF has been scarce lately, but I did want to share another story that occurred with my new favorite sister-in-law, Erica. Alas, I was not able to view this one first-hand, but hearing her describe the incident was just as welcoming.
As I was writing this and as I was discussing this event with others on here, I came to realize that this story almost sounds too good to be true. And indeed, it’s the kind of setup that I would have paid money to a producer to purchase a clip of if said clip were available. While I am not downplaying the events by any means, please also consider that this story is written through the eyes of a member of the TMF, so to any ordinary vanilla person, this likely wasn’t all that significant, whereas the TMF writer will focus on every little detail he or she can.
I’ll also acknowledge that the story kind of just ends abruptly. That’s how it was described to me in person, so that’s how I presented it here. I surely had 1,000,001 additional things I would have liked to ask her or have her share, but it’s just simply not something I can do. So, apologies for the abrupt ending, but know that I’m keeping true to what happened.
Story
It was the weekend before Valentine’s Day. As is usual for my weekends, I had a long list of things that I hoped to accomplish around the house and a limited amount of time to accomplish them. It was nearing late afternoon on Saturday, so I knew my window of time was shrinking, especially since I would have to start preparing dinner for the family shortly.
Thus, when my wife called me up from the basement, I let out a sigh wondering what she was going to have me do that would - once again - prevent me from getting anything done around the house over the weekend.
“What’s up?” I asked rather grumpily when I made it to the main floor of the house, my displeasure of what I anticipated next showing.
“Erica’s on the phone,” my wife said, giving me “the look” to drop the attitude in case Erica could hear. “She’s wondering if you could help her out.”
“Sure,” I said in a happier tone, both so I wouldn’t dig my hole deeper with my wife but also because it wouldn’t be a bother to help Erica. She had certainly dropped things for us enough times in the past.
“She needs you to meet her at the store,” my wife said, explaining that Erica was buying a Valentine’s Day gift for her husband but would need my truck to transport it back to her house and my “strength” to get it in the house for her.
“I can do that,” I said. “When does she need it?”
“Now,” my wife said, motioning for me to go get ready. “She’s already there.”
“Oh,” I said, not expecting to be literally dropping everything. I quickly washed up and tossed a clear shirt on and went to grab my keys. “Should I just get take-out on the way home for dinner then?” I asked, knowing that making a full meal after doing this would not only be the last thing I wanted to do but would also likely result in us eating very late.
“That’s fine,” my wife said quickly, as if shooing me out the door.
It was a short-ish drive to the store - not right down the road but nothing that required a gas tank fill up or anything. I drove around the parking lot until I found Erica’s car and parked in the closest available spot to it before making my way inside the store to find her.
It didn’t take long to find her, as she had been standing at the front of the store looking at some of the promotional displays while she waited. We exchanged pleasantries and she offered a brief hug.
“Thank you so much for coming last minute,” she said, genuinely appreciative of the effort. “I’m sure you were very busy.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said casually. “I was able to use it as a reason to get take out and not have to cook tonight, so it’s a win-win in my book.”
“Well, in that case, you’re welcome,” she said with a laugh.
“So, what are we getting for the hubby?” I asked.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” she said, ushering me to the particular area of the store. “So, what do you think?” she asked when she showed me the present-to-be.
“Nice,” I said, looking it over. “I’m jealous. I’ve always wanted one myself.”
“You think it’s a good gift?” she asked, looking for reassurance.
“Like I said, I wish I were getting one,” I said.
She seemed relieved that I had given my approval. And I suppose I should qualify that statement; it wasn’t necessarily that I personally had given my approval, but more than SOMEONE had. One of Erica’s quirks is that she is what I would call a people-pleaser, the result, I think, of both wanting to be the one in control in terms of planning - feeling people are more likely to go along with what she had planned if they were happy with the idea - and also of needing that added layer of reassurance for confirmation. I don’t know much about her history, but I do believe she was always the Straight A/athletic student when she was younger, so she was likely used to receiving constant approval and may need it now. But I’m not a psychiatrist…
Finding no associates around to help us, she asked at the front if they could page someone down our aisle and returned just a moment after that, chuckling as she pointed to the speakers in the ceiling as the page to assist her was heard over the intercom.
We stood there for a moment waiting, not knowing if someone would be with us immediately or if it might take several pages to get the help.
“You look a little dressed up for a trip to the home improvement store, no?” I asked, joking about her outfit.
Really, she didn’t look TOO out of place. At the risk of making a broad generalization, I’ve found that clientele at these stores typically fall into one of two categories: professionals/people who consider themselves handy and casual people/people who get lost in the sea of aisles at places like this. Besides their general behavior and movements within the store, you can usually tell them apart based on their appearance: those from the former category are usually wearing either some type of work uniform or “work clothes” that they have in their closet, while those from the former category are usually wearing their nicer clothes. Again, I hope that was not too much of a generalization, and I only even say it to point out that Erica definitely fell into the latter category and her outfit this day was a tell-tale sign.
As it was cold, she still had her winter jacket on, though it was unbuttoned in the front now, revealing the black sweater that she wore underneath. I could see a white shirt of some kind sticking out from under the sweater for layering, giving way to the deep denim blue skinny jeans that she was wearing. But it was what was on her feet that really made her stand out amidst the DIYers: a pair of blank ankle boots with a thin heel.
“Oh no, is something wrong?” she asked, looking over her outfit frantically.
“No, no,” I laughed. “It’s just that most do-it-yourselfers don’t wear heels to the store.”
“Oh,” she laughed, lifting her left leg up in the air behind her to show off her heels. “I was coming from a day with my friends and just stopped here on the way back,” she explained. “It’s something we started back in college one year when none of us had boyfriends or plans for Valentine’s Day. Just a little Galentine’s Day event. And we’ve kept it going ever since.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said, though if I’m being honest, and I almost feel ashamed to admit it, my mind’s focus was centered on one thing at the moment: what might be under those heels. I don’t think it’s a secret around here that I am a huge sucker for nylons, especially nylons worn under jeans. And not only had Erica made known her penchant for wearing nylons under jeans, but it had also become almost an inside-joke between us - at the very least, it was a topic that I normally wouldn’t broach with anyone at all but felt comfortable speaking casually about it with Erica.
I hoped she might indicate what she had on. As we were talking about her clothing and, specifically, what was on her feet, I tried to will her to tell me she had nylons on. Which might sound a little bizarre, but that is how the inside joke had sort of developed. If it were a particularly cold day and I made mention of the frigid temperatures, she would say something like “Definitely a nylons and jeans day” and show her nylons somehow. If she were wearing some type of more formal footwear, she would usually point out the nylons on her own, saying something like “Well, I just HAD to wear nylons with these shoes, right?”.
Alas, though, it wasn’t meant to be, as the discussion about outfits ended there and eventually, an associate came to assist us and we walked to the front to pay, her heels clicking against the concrete floor with each step that she took.
We got the item paid for and loaded into my truck, and then drove to Erica’s house where I unloaded it in the garage. I helped her wrap the gift and then threw some moving blankets over it so it would be disguised until it was time for my brother-in-law to open it.
“Won’t he be suspicious when he sees this in the corner of the garage?” I asked as we finished covering it.
Erica laughed. “He’ll see it as something that might need to be cleaned, so trust me, he isn’t touching this.”
“Good point,” I said.
“You have a minute?” Erica asked. “I’ve got some stuff I have to give your wife inside. Why don’t you come inside while I get it and I can get you something to drink?” I happily obliged and we made our way inside.
Once we made our way from the garage to the kitchen, Erica paused. Bending down to unzip her ankle booties, she looked up to me and said, “Sorry - I’ve been waiting to get these things off for hours,” she explained, tugging each bootie off one after the other.
“Oh, no bother,” I said, though I was initially a little deflated when I saw the black socks covering her feet. ‘Oh well,’ I thought to myself. ‘Can’t win ‘em all.’
She took a couple of steps into the kitchen when her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket and read the text message that had come in. As she did, the lights shone from the heavens above…
Erica lifted her left leg in the air behind her, bent at the knee. With her eyes still glued to the cell phone screen, she reached down with her left hand and used her thumb to hook into the top of the sock that was covering that foot. With one swift pull, her sock was off and her foot was back on the floor. She repeated the process with her right foot, nonchalantly placing that foot back down on the floor, as well, while she continued to stare at her phone.
And there they were.
Nylons.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling herself away from her phone. “Just my friends from earlier messaging me,” she said, explaining why she had been focused so intently on her phone.
“No worries,” I said, thinking to myself that I was also intently focused on staring at something, as well.
“Why don’t you go sit down on the couch and I’ll grab those things for your wife?” she suggested, motioning me to the couch as she walked off to a room in the back.
I made my way over to the couch and plopped myself down on the end. I’ll admit - a million things were racing through my mind at that moment as I took stock of the situation. This was the kind of opportunity that most people dreamed of, right? I have seemingly an insanely ticklish woman. She’s removed both her shoes and her socks. She’s hitting up just about every TMF cliche there is - wearing nylons, her feet fresh out of boots and socks to likely be extra warm… I mean, I couldn’t be a card-carrying member of the TMF if I didn’t take advantage of this opportunity, right?
But alas, better judgment won out and I reasoned that it wasn’t the right thing to do, for a variety of reasons. As tempting as the situation was, I would have to pass.
Erica returned from the other room and sat down on the couch, pulling her legs up on the couch so that her feet were sticking out on the couch cushion. ‘Are you not a merciful God?” I thought to myself as I stared at the vulnerable nylon-covered soles a mere inches from me.
“For a second there, I thought you had abandoned your nylons under jeans strategy,” I said, carefully bringing up the subject.
Erica laughed and instinctively covered her feet with her hand. “No way,” she said with jocular emphasis. “These things get me through those cold days,” she continued. “I wish I had abandoned my wearing-heels-with-the-girls strategy, though,” she said with a playful pout as she began to rub her own feet. “My feet are killing me.”
“Well, ask your husband for a foot rub when he gets home,” I said, happy to be finding it easy to continue the conversation somewhat naturally.
“Yeah, right,” she said with a snicker. “You’re funny.”
“What?” I asked, wondering what it was that I had said she found so humorous, but hoping that it was something in particular.
“Well, one,” she said, “I don’t know who you think my husband is, but like he would ever offer me a foot rub,” she said. “And two, like I would ever be able to handle getting a foot rub from someone,” she said.
(Tickling Mentioned Beginning Here)
JACKPOT. Topic successfully brought up in a casual way.
I feigned confusion for a moment pretending to piece together what it was she meant before pretending to have an “aha” moment as I realized what she meant. “Oh, the ticklish thing?” I asked.
“Yup, the ticklish thing,” she said defeatedly.
“Can’t even handle a foot rub?” I asked, hoping to continue the conversation in a natural manner for as long as I could.
“Not without any dire consequences for the person giving me the foot rub,” she said, demonstrating what she meant by delivering a kick to the open air in front of her. “Do you have any idea how much it sucks to love wearing heels but never be able to get a foot rub afterwards?” she asked, looking for sympathy.
“Wow, it’s that bad?” I asked, pretending to once again be shocked at how ticklish Erica was.
“I told you,” she said, as if explaining it to me for the hundredth time. “I’m basically the most ticklish person on the planet.”
“I guess so,” I said, both because I wasn’t sure how else to respond and also because I didn’t want to push my luck by continuing the conversation.
“Besides,” she said, apparently not bothered at all by the idea of continuing the conversation, “even if I COULD sit through a foot rub, it’s just taking too much of a risk,” she said.
“Risk?” I asked, trying to see where she’d take me in this conversation.
“You’re putting your feet right in the hands of someone who knows you’re ticklish,” she explained. “Or even if they don’t know you’re ticklish, everyone’s ticklish on their feet to some degree,” she continued. “You have a greater chance of hitting the lottery than of getting a foot rub without getting tickled,” she said.
“You’ve thought this through?” I asked, genuinely amazed that she had put as much thought and effort into this.
“Well, you have to when you’re as ticklish as I am,” she explained.
I laughed - again, because I found it humorous but I also didn’t know how to respond, either.
“What?” Erica laughed, realizing, I think, how silly - yet proficient - she was sounding. “You don’t think people remember when someone else is ticklish?”
“No, no, I’m sure they do,” I agreed, finding the irony in the situation of Erica trying to explain the inner nuances of a person being ticklish to a member of the TMF.
“You better believe they do,” she emphasized. “My friends still remember from college,” she said, almost seeming like she regretted saying that as the words escaped her mouth.
“Why? What did they say?” I asked, playing it cool so as not to sound too eager to hear while also not allowing her to escape without hearing some details.
“No, they just tickled me,” she said quietly, as if ashamed that she had to admit it.
“They tickled you?” I asked with a light chuckle, again not wanting to sound too eager but also wanting to keep the mood jovial. “Like, today?”
“Yes,” she said, as if still reluctant to share details. “Oh, all right,” she said, a sudden change in her tone. “Tickle therapy session?” she asked.
“The doctor’s in,” I said.
At this point, I should pause and just briefly explain the tickle therapy session backstory. If there is an appetite, I can post a story about it. It stems from the one and only time that I have ever personally tickled Erica. It wasn’t an intended tickle; as I apologized to Erica, she said not to worry about it and admitted that the touch wouldn’t have tickled 99.99% of the population, but she’s in that unfortunate 0.01%.. From that, a discussion broke out where she opened up about being ticklish and how she usually tries to hide it from the world because she can feel embarrassed or insecure about how ticklish she is at her age. I just provided the usual support of saying not to worry about it, and from that, the inside joke was born that I was her tickle therapist. It’s only been brought up a few times since then. As I mentioned, I’d be happy to share the complete story of its origin, but it’d be mostly ust dialogue and inner thoughts.
Upon hearing that the doctor was in, Erica took the bit and ran with it, grabbing a pillow and placing it behind her head as she turned to lay on the couch as if in the stereotypical psychiatrist office. As she did, she swung her legs up so that they, too, would be on the couch, but she seemingly misjudged her distance, for when she swung her legs up, her feet landed on my left leg of my lap.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, realizing that she had miscalculated her dimensions.
“It’s OK,” I said. “I don’t mind.” Understatement of the year.
Erica paused for a moment, as if plotting out all of the statistical analysis in her mind to determine if this was a good idea before finally convincing herself that it was OK and leaving her feet on my leg as she set her head down on the pillow.
My word. This was cruel. Honestly, I had seen Erica’s feet before and they had never looked all that amazing. I mean, while I AM a ticklish foot guy, I’m not necessarily a foot guy in general. If the foot isn’t ticklish, I could take it or leave it. And Erica’s feet had never really stood out to me before. But this day… I don’t know if it was the fact that she had nylons on, I don’t know if it was the fact that they were resting on my leg, or I don’t know if it was the fact that I now knew how excruciatingly ticklish they were, but these feet looked amazing. Through her nylons I could see her deep red - almost a dar maroon - toenail color. Her big toe was the largest on each foot and each toe was smaller in size uniformly. She had the nylons on, of course, but I couldn’t make out any blemishes or flaws anywhere else on her foot. No dry spots. No calluses. These were some flawless feet. No wonder they were so ticklish.
“So you have to understand,” Erica started, unaware of the analysis I was currently doing on her feet, “that these girls used to TORTURE me with tickling when we were in college,” she said staring up at the ceiling.
“Really?” I asked, trying to stay strategic here. I wanted to guide Erica through her story without it seeming like I was trying to coax information out of her. I needed to seem interested but let her do the talking.
“You have no idea,” she continued. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be a girl living on campus at school and to have your friends find out you’re ticklish?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said, trying to keep the mood light.
Erica laughed. “Well, let me tell you, it isn’t easy,” she said. “It’s like you’re a walking bullseye sometimes,” she said.
“Life is tough,” I said, resisting the urge to ask for more details about that.
“First world problems, right?” Erica joked. “Well, I foolishly thought that all of that was behind us and in the past, but apparently I was mistaken.”
“So what happened?” I asked, eagerly awaiting the coming attractions to come to an end so we could get to the feature presentation.
“So it all started out fine - you know, whatever,” she started. “We went out for lunch and then did a little bit of shopping and then we ended up at one of their houses,” she said.
I nodded, showing that I was following along with her story.
“And then at one point, we start talking about Valentine’s Day and the Valentine’s Days that we had back when we were in college,” she continues. “So of course they try to bring up every embarrassing detail that happened back then,” she said with a sigh.
“That’s what friends are for, right?” I said.
“Yeah, well, they kept asking me about this one guy that I went out with on a Valentine’s date during Sophomore year,” Erica continued. “And I really didn’t want to relive that whole night all over again, so I just kept ignoring them, you know?” she said.
“Nothing bad, right?” I asked, not wanting to re-open any old wounds with Erica once again retelling the story of that night.
“No, no,” she said quickly. “Just an embarrassing night that I didn’t want to talk about with them,” she said, offering no more details.
“I get it,” I said, showing that I wasn’t going to make her talk about it if she didn’t want to.
“So Rachel,” Erica continued, “who had already had a glass of wine with lunch and was having another one now - and she’s never been able to hold her liquor,” Erica said, looking up from her story, “well, she then says to everyone, ‘Hey girls, you remember how we used to get Erica to spill the dirt back in the day?”” Erica said with a huff.
“How?” I asked, both not wanting to assume the answer but also wanting to hear her say the answer.
“They’d tickle me to death,” Erica said with a laugh.
“And did it work?” I asked, already knowing the answer, of course.
“What do you think?” Erica asked.
“I didn’t know you then,” I said, trying to explain my question. “Maybe you could tolerate tickling better back when you were younger?” I suggested.
“Well, I appreciate your vote of confidence,” Erica said, “but I’ve pretty much been deathly ticklish since birth, so yes, it worked every single time they tried,” Erica said defeatedly.
“So what happened after Rachel said that?” I asked, steering her back to the events of earlier that day.
“Well, after she said that, I thought, ‘Oh, crap,’ and was hoping that no one else would remember, but then I saw them both smiling so I knew that they remembered,” she said.
“Of all the things to remember,” I said, trying to sympathize with Erica’s plight.
“Right?” she said emphatically. “Well, so then Danielle says, ‘She couldn’t still be ticklish, could she?’ to the other girls, like she’s actually doubting it. And I’m thinking that that is my out, ya know?”.
“Danielle sounds like a good friend,” I said.
Erica laughed. “Yeah, well Rachel not so much,” she continued, “because then she said, ‘Well even if she isn’t, it might be fun, like old times,’ and she, like, wiggled her fingers in the air like this,” she said, demonstrating.
“Rachel sounds ruthless,” I said, still going with the sympathy card.
“Rachel sounded drunk,” Erica said with another laugh. “Well, so then Carrie says, ‘I didn’t even think it was possible to just stop being ticklish’,” Erica continued.
“If only, right?” I said hypothetically.
“You’re telling me,” Erica said with a laugh. “So then Danielle says, ‘I think we put her through enough torture back in college,’ and I’m thinking, ‘Wow, Danielle is friend of the year here’,” Erica said with a laugh.
“So what are you doing when they’re saying all this?” I asked, wondering about Erica’s perspective of things.
“Freaking out,” Erica said, almost as if in the form of a question. “I’m just thinking, ‘What’s the fastest way I can get out of this room?’,” she said with a laugh.
“I bet,” I said, laughing along. “And heels aren’t the best shoes to run in, either, I imagine,” I added.
“Nope,” she said. “So I just said, ‘Come on, girls. That silly stuff is all in the past now, right?’ - you know, just hoping that they’d put an end to it before it began,” she said.
“Yup,” I said, following along.
“And that’s when Rachel started,” Erica said with a sigh. “She just started poking at my sides like this,” she said, demonstrating against the air in front of her by using the pointer finger on each hand to poke in a ticklish manner.
“Oh no,” I said, continuing to offer my sympathy. “What did you do?”
“What COULD I do?” she asked. “I jumped. But unfortunately because I was sitting between Rachel and Carrie, I jumped right into Carrie, and she started doing the same thing,” Erica said with a sigh.
“Yikes, a double attack?” I asked. “Where was Danielle during this?”
“She was sitting on the other side of Carrie,” Erica said.
“Gotcha,” I said.
“So Carrie and Rachel are just taking turns poking me, so when Rachel would poke me, I’d jump to Carrie, but then she’d poke me and I’d jump back to Rachel, and then she’d poke me,” Erica said with a sigh. “I was trapped, basically.”
“A rock and a hard place?” I asked.
“Yup,” Erica said in agreement.
“Where’s Danielle in all of this?” I asked.
“She’s just sitting there at this point,” Erica said.
“How are you handling it at this point?” I asked, trying to phrase the question in such a way that wasn’t creepy.
“I mean, as best as I could,” Erica said with a laugh. “They’re not really tickling necessarily at this point. More like poking,” Erica explained. “So I wasn’t a total mess yet,” she said with a laugh.
“I have a feeling that part’s coming?” I asked.
“Of course it is,” Erica said with another sigh. “So after a few minutes of that, Rachel starts doing this thing with her fingers where she’s pretending she’s a helicopter or something coming in to tickle me,” she explained, demonstrating Rachel’s action.
“A helicopter?” I asked with a laugh.
“I told you,” Erica explained. “She was definitely buzzed at this point,” she said with a laugh. “Anyways,” she continued, “I, like, grab onto Rachel’s hands at this point to get her to stop, so we’re, like, sort of in a test of strength now, ya know?” she said.
“Yeah,”I said, picturing it in my mind.
“So while I’m doing that, I’m not even paying attention to Carrie,” Erica said. “So she sees the opportunity and she goes for it and actually starts tickling me under my arms,” Erica said in a defeated tone.
“Oh no,” I said with sympathy.
“Yup,” Erica said. “And this is tickling, not just poking, so I’m done,” she said with a laugh. “Rachel’s still got my hands from our test of strength so I can’t even block Carrie,” she sighed.
“So what did you do?” I asked.
“Yeah, I pretty much collapsed,” Erica said with a laugh. “So now I’m basically laying across Carrie and Rachel while Carrie’s tickling me under my arms and Rachel’s holding me in place.”
“Tough spot,” I said.
“Well, it was about to get worse,” Erica said.
“How could it get worse?” I asked, pretending to be in disbelief but beyond thankful that there was still more to come.
“Well, so out of the blue,” Erica said with a huff. “Danielle goes, ‘Girls, weren’t her feet her most ticklish spot?’,” Erica said with annoyance.
“No,” I said, feigning disbelief.
“Yes,” Erica said as if she believed that I couldn’t believe it.
“So what happened then?” I asked, all too eager to hear the details.
“So Danielle goes over and grabs my legs,” Erica said.
“Shut up!” I said.
“She did,” Erica said.
“Did you have your shoes on still?” I asked, immediately regretting asking a question that sounded “too-TMF”.
“Fortunately, yeah,” Erica said, not picking up on any TMF-ness. “I was thinking that that was my only hope, but then she started taking my boots off,” Erica said.
“No, she did not,” I said, again with the disbelief.
“She did,” Erica said.
“So what’s going through your mind at this point?” I asked, trying to sap every last detail I could out of this story.
“Honestly,” Erica said with a laugh, “all I’m thinking at this point is, ‘Oh my God, not my feet’,” she laughed.
“Your weakness,” I said, thinking I could weave that TMF word into the conversation by showing sympathy.
“I knowwww,” she said with emphasis.
“So then what happened? Did she get your shoes off?” I asked.
“Oh with ease,” Erica said.
“Didn’t you put up a fight?” I asked, knowing the answer to the question already.
“I couldn’t,” she said with a slight whine. “Carrie just kept tickling me under my arms, so I had, like, no strength,” she said.
“So then what?” I asked.
“So Danielle pulls my boots and my socks off,” Erica said.
“Were you wearing nylons then, too?” I asked, admittedly jumping the gun a bit and wishing I hadn’t asked the question immediately.
“Yeah,” Erica said. “They’re pantyhose,” she said with a look as if I were dumb for asking.
“I’m a guy,” I reminded her. “How am I supposed to know?” I asked - without mentioning, of course, the hundreds of times I had also worn pantyhose under jeans behind a locked door. Haha
“You men are all the same,” she said with a laugh.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said jokingly, dismissing her insult. “So Danielle has your shoes and socks off. Then what?”
“So,” Erica said, resuming her story. “Somehow while laughing I managed to blurt out, ‘Not my feet!’ because Rachel heard me say that and said to Danielle, ‘Let me give you a hand down there’, and she lets go of my hands and moves over so she’s sitting with Danielle at my feet, too,” Erica said.
“Oh no,” I said, now with genuine empathy. “This is turning out to be your worst nightmare, isn’t it?”
“Definitely,” she agreed quickly. “So Danielle starts on my feet and I’m, like, done in a nano-second,” she said with a laugh.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, really unable to form any other thoughts.
“Well, you know how ticklish my feet are,” she reminded me. “So I’m, like, literally uncontrollably laughing at this point and everyone else is laughing it up having a grand ol’ time at my expense,” she added. “The only solace I got was that Carrie had stopped tickling under my arms so she could watch me spazzing out while Danielle tickled my feet,” she said.
“What an ordeal,” I said, not sure if the story was wrapping up or if there’d be more.
“You’re telling me,” she said. “So after a minute, Rachel decides she wants a turn so she joins in with Danielle and I’ve got the both of them tickling my feet now,” she said with a sigh.
“Oh no, two-on-one?” I asked. “What did you do?”
“All I could do was laugh,” she said. “And laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh,” she continued, proving her point.
“Yikes, that must have been torture for you,” I repeated.
“It was,” she said.
“Did you ever tell them what they wanted to hear?” I asked.
“Well, I couldn’t at this point because I’m literally dying of laughter,” she said. “But yeah, once they stopped, I told them everything they wanted to hear, are you kidding?” she laughed.
“And you said they used to do this to you all the time?” I asked.
“All. The. Time,” she said with emphasis “Like not even joking, it feels like it happened almost daily,” she said.
“Wow,” I said. “Must have been tough.”
“You have no idea,” she said.
Sensing the story - and therapy session - was coming to an end, I stole one last glance down at her feet as they lay on my leg. I contemplated their vulnerability as they lay there, void of any protection except for the thin layer of sheer nylon covering them. I thought of the irony of the fact that this poor woman is so impacted by her own ticklishness that she goes to such great lengths to try to hide it, but yet she’s chosen a card-carrying member of the TMF to confide in.
“Thanks for the therapy session,” she said, getting up and snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Anytime,” I said. “Whenever you need it.”
“Yeah, well hopefully I won’t need it ever again,” she said with a laugh.
And that was it. But boy oh boy to have been a fly on the wall just a little earlier…
We’ve had a good round of COVID and other various illnesses go through the OldEnglish house the last few weeks, so my time on the TMF has been scarce lately, but I did want to share another story that occurred with my new favorite sister-in-law, Erica. Alas, I was not able to view this one first-hand, but hearing her describe the incident was just as welcoming.
As I was writing this and as I was discussing this event with others on here, I came to realize that this story almost sounds too good to be true. And indeed, it’s the kind of setup that I would have paid money to a producer to purchase a clip of if said clip were available. While I am not downplaying the events by any means, please also consider that this story is written through the eyes of a member of the TMF, so to any ordinary vanilla person, this likely wasn’t all that significant, whereas the TMF writer will focus on every little detail he or she can.
I’ll also acknowledge that the story kind of just ends abruptly. That’s how it was described to me in person, so that’s how I presented it here. I surely had 1,000,001 additional things I would have liked to ask her or have her share, but it’s just simply not something I can do. So, apologies for the abrupt ending, but know that I’m keeping true to what happened.
Story
It was the weekend before Valentine’s Day. As is usual for my weekends, I had a long list of things that I hoped to accomplish around the house and a limited amount of time to accomplish them. It was nearing late afternoon on Saturday, so I knew my window of time was shrinking, especially since I would have to start preparing dinner for the family shortly.
Thus, when my wife called me up from the basement, I let out a sigh wondering what she was going to have me do that would - once again - prevent me from getting anything done around the house over the weekend.
“What’s up?” I asked rather grumpily when I made it to the main floor of the house, my displeasure of what I anticipated next showing.
“Erica’s on the phone,” my wife said, giving me “the look” to drop the attitude in case Erica could hear. “She’s wondering if you could help her out.”
“Sure,” I said in a happier tone, both so I wouldn’t dig my hole deeper with my wife but also because it wouldn’t be a bother to help Erica. She had certainly dropped things for us enough times in the past.
“She needs you to meet her at the store,” my wife said, explaining that Erica was buying a Valentine’s Day gift for her husband but would need my truck to transport it back to her house and my “strength” to get it in the house for her.
“I can do that,” I said. “When does she need it?”
“Now,” my wife said, motioning for me to go get ready. “She’s already there.”
“Oh,” I said, not expecting to be literally dropping everything. I quickly washed up and tossed a clear shirt on and went to grab my keys. “Should I just get take-out on the way home for dinner then?” I asked, knowing that making a full meal after doing this would not only be the last thing I wanted to do but would also likely result in us eating very late.
“That’s fine,” my wife said quickly, as if shooing me out the door.
It was a short-ish drive to the store - not right down the road but nothing that required a gas tank fill up or anything. I drove around the parking lot until I found Erica’s car and parked in the closest available spot to it before making my way inside the store to find her.
It didn’t take long to find her, as she had been standing at the front of the store looking at some of the promotional displays while she waited. We exchanged pleasantries and she offered a brief hug.
“Thank you so much for coming last minute,” she said, genuinely appreciative of the effort. “I’m sure you were very busy.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said casually. “I was able to use it as a reason to get take out and not have to cook tonight, so it’s a win-win in my book.”
“Well, in that case, you’re welcome,” she said with a laugh.
“So, what are we getting for the hubby?” I asked.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” she said, ushering me to the particular area of the store. “So, what do you think?” she asked when she showed me the present-to-be.
“Nice,” I said, looking it over. “I’m jealous. I’ve always wanted one myself.”
“You think it’s a good gift?” she asked, looking for reassurance.
“Like I said, I wish I were getting one,” I said.
She seemed relieved that I had given my approval. And I suppose I should qualify that statement; it wasn’t necessarily that I personally had given my approval, but more than SOMEONE had. One of Erica’s quirks is that she is what I would call a people-pleaser, the result, I think, of both wanting to be the one in control in terms of planning - feeling people are more likely to go along with what she had planned if they were happy with the idea - and also of needing that added layer of reassurance for confirmation. I don’t know much about her history, but I do believe she was always the Straight A/athletic student when she was younger, so she was likely used to receiving constant approval and may need it now. But I’m not a psychiatrist…
Finding no associates around to help us, she asked at the front if they could page someone down our aisle and returned just a moment after that, chuckling as she pointed to the speakers in the ceiling as the page to assist her was heard over the intercom.
We stood there for a moment waiting, not knowing if someone would be with us immediately or if it might take several pages to get the help.
“You look a little dressed up for a trip to the home improvement store, no?” I asked, joking about her outfit.
Really, she didn’t look TOO out of place. At the risk of making a broad generalization, I’ve found that clientele at these stores typically fall into one of two categories: professionals/people who consider themselves handy and casual people/people who get lost in the sea of aisles at places like this. Besides their general behavior and movements within the store, you can usually tell them apart based on their appearance: those from the former category are usually wearing either some type of work uniform or “work clothes” that they have in their closet, while those from the former category are usually wearing their nicer clothes. Again, I hope that was not too much of a generalization, and I only even say it to point out that Erica definitely fell into the latter category and her outfit this day was a tell-tale sign.
As it was cold, she still had her winter jacket on, though it was unbuttoned in the front now, revealing the black sweater that she wore underneath. I could see a white shirt of some kind sticking out from under the sweater for layering, giving way to the deep denim blue skinny jeans that she was wearing. But it was what was on her feet that really made her stand out amidst the DIYers: a pair of blank ankle boots with a thin heel.
“Oh no, is something wrong?” she asked, looking over her outfit frantically.
“No, no,” I laughed. “It’s just that most do-it-yourselfers don’t wear heels to the store.”
“Oh,” she laughed, lifting her left leg up in the air behind her to show off her heels. “I was coming from a day with my friends and just stopped here on the way back,” she explained. “It’s something we started back in college one year when none of us had boyfriends or plans for Valentine’s Day. Just a little Galentine’s Day event. And we’ve kept it going ever since.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said, though if I’m being honest, and I almost feel ashamed to admit it, my mind’s focus was centered on one thing at the moment: what might be under those heels. I don’t think it’s a secret around here that I am a huge sucker for nylons, especially nylons worn under jeans. And not only had Erica made known her penchant for wearing nylons under jeans, but it had also become almost an inside-joke between us - at the very least, it was a topic that I normally wouldn’t broach with anyone at all but felt comfortable speaking casually about it with Erica.
I hoped she might indicate what she had on. As we were talking about her clothing and, specifically, what was on her feet, I tried to will her to tell me she had nylons on. Which might sound a little bizarre, but that is how the inside joke had sort of developed. If it were a particularly cold day and I made mention of the frigid temperatures, she would say something like “Definitely a nylons and jeans day” and show her nylons somehow. If she were wearing some type of more formal footwear, she would usually point out the nylons on her own, saying something like “Well, I just HAD to wear nylons with these shoes, right?”.
Alas, though, it wasn’t meant to be, as the discussion about outfits ended there and eventually, an associate came to assist us and we walked to the front to pay, her heels clicking against the concrete floor with each step that she took.
We got the item paid for and loaded into my truck, and then drove to Erica’s house where I unloaded it in the garage. I helped her wrap the gift and then threw some moving blankets over it so it would be disguised until it was time for my brother-in-law to open it.
“Won’t he be suspicious when he sees this in the corner of the garage?” I asked as we finished covering it.
Erica laughed. “He’ll see it as something that might need to be cleaned, so trust me, he isn’t touching this.”
“Good point,” I said.
“You have a minute?” Erica asked. “I’ve got some stuff I have to give your wife inside. Why don’t you come inside while I get it and I can get you something to drink?” I happily obliged and we made our way inside.
Once we made our way from the garage to the kitchen, Erica paused. Bending down to unzip her ankle booties, she looked up to me and said, “Sorry - I’ve been waiting to get these things off for hours,” she explained, tugging each bootie off one after the other.
“Oh, no bother,” I said, though I was initially a little deflated when I saw the black socks covering her feet. ‘Oh well,’ I thought to myself. ‘Can’t win ‘em all.’
She took a couple of steps into the kitchen when her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket and read the text message that had come in. As she did, the lights shone from the heavens above…
Erica lifted her left leg in the air behind her, bent at the knee. With her eyes still glued to the cell phone screen, she reached down with her left hand and used her thumb to hook into the top of the sock that was covering that foot. With one swift pull, her sock was off and her foot was back on the floor. She repeated the process with her right foot, nonchalantly placing that foot back down on the floor, as well, while she continued to stare at her phone.
And there they were.
Nylons.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling herself away from her phone. “Just my friends from earlier messaging me,” she said, explaining why she had been focused so intently on her phone.
“No worries,” I said, thinking to myself that I was also intently focused on staring at something, as well.
“Why don’t you go sit down on the couch and I’ll grab those things for your wife?” she suggested, motioning me to the couch as she walked off to a room in the back.
I made my way over to the couch and plopped myself down on the end. I’ll admit - a million things were racing through my mind at that moment as I took stock of the situation. This was the kind of opportunity that most people dreamed of, right? I have seemingly an insanely ticklish woman. She’s removed both her shoes and her socks. She’s hitting up just about every TMF cliche there is - wearing nylons, her feet fresh out of boots and socks to likely be extra warm… I mean, I couldn’t be a card-carrying member of the TMF if I didn’t take advantage of this opportunity, right?
But alas, better judgment won out and I reasoned that it wasn’t the right thing to do, for a variety of reasons. As tempting as the situation was, I would have to pass.
Erica returned from the other room and sat down on the couch, pulling her legs up on the couch so that her feet were sticking out on the couch cushion. ‘Are you not a merciful God?” I thought to myself as I stared at the vulnerable nylon-covered soles a mere inches from me.
“For a second there, I thought you had abandoned your nylons under jeans strategy,” I said, carefully bringing up the subject.
Erica laughed and instinctively covered her feet with her hand. “No way,” she said with jocular emphasis. “These things get me through those cold days,” she continued. “I wish I had abandoned my wearing-heels-with-the-girls strategy, though,” she said with a playful pout as she began to rub her own feet. “My feet are killing me.”
“Well, ask your husband for a foot rub when he gets home,” I said, happy to be finding it easy to continue the conversation somewhat naturally.
“Yeah, right,” she said with a snicker. “You’re funny.”
“What?” I asked, wondering what it was that I had said she found so humorous, but hoping that it was something in particular.
“Well, one,” she said, “I don’t know who you think my husband is, but like he would ever offer me a foot rub,” she said. “And two, like I would ever be able to handle getting a foot rub from someone,” she said.
(Tickling Mentioned Beginning Here)
JACKPOT. Topic successfully brought up in a casual way.
I feigned confusion for a moment pretending to piece together what it was she meant before pretending to have an “aha” moment as I realized what she meant. “Oh, the ticklish thing?” I asked.
“Yup, the ticklish thing,” she said defeatedly.
“Can’t even handle a foot rub?” I asked, hoping to continue the conversation in a natural manner for as long as I could.
“Not without any dire consequences for the person giving me the foot rub,” she said, demonstrating what she meant by delivering a kick to the open air in front of her. “Do you have any idea how much it sucks to love wearing heels but never be able to get a foot rub afterwards?” she asked, looking for sympathy.
“Wow, it’s that bad?” I asked, pretending to once again be shocked at how ticklish Erica was.
“I told you,” she said, as if explaining it to me for the hundredth time. “I’m basically the most ticklish person on the planet.”
“I guess so,” I said, both because I wasn’t sure how else to respond and also because I didn’t want to push my luck by continuing the conversation.
“Besides,” she said, apparently not bothered at all by the idea of continuing the conversation, “even if I COULD sit through a foot rub, it’s just taking too much of a risk,” she said.
“Risk?” I asked, trying to see where she’d take me in this conversation.
“You’re putting your feet right in the hands of someone who knows you’re ticklish,” she explained. “Or even if they don’t know you’re ticklish, everyone’s ticklish on their feet to some degree,” she continued. “You have a greater chance of hitting the lottery than of getting a foot rub without getting tickled,” she said.
“You’ve thought this through?” I asked, genuinely amazed that she had put as much thought and effort into this.
“Well, you have to when you’re as ticklish as I am,” she explained.
I laughed - again, because I found it humorous but I also didn’t know how to respond, either.
“What?” Erica laughed, realizing, I think, how silly - yet proficient - she was sounding. “You don’t think people remember when someone else is ticklish?”
“No, no, I’m sure they do,” I agreed, finding the irony in the situation of Erica trying to explain the inner nuances of a person being ticklish to a member of the TMF.
“You better believe they do,” she emphasized. “My friends still remember from college,” she said, almost seeming like she regretted saying that as the words escaped her mouth.
“Why? What did they say?” I asked, playing it cool so as not to sound too eager to hear while also not allowing her to escape without hearing some details.
“No, they just tickled me,” she said quietly, as if ashamed that she had to admit it.
“They tickled you?” I asked with a light chuckle, again not wanting to sound too eager but also wanting to keep the mood jovial. “Like, today?”
“Yes,” she said, as if still reluctant to share details. “Oh, all right,” she said, a sudden change in her tone. “Tickle therapy session?” she asked.
“The doctor’s in,” I said.
At this point, I should pause and just briefly explain the tickle therapy session backstory. If there is an appetite, I can post a story about it. It stems from the one and only time that I have ever personally tickled Erica. It wasn’t an intended tickle; as I apologized to Erica, she said not to worry about it and admitted that the touch wouldn’t have tickled 99.99% of the population, but she’s in that unfortunate 0.01%.. From that, a discussion broke out where she opened up about being ticklish and how she usually tries to hide it from the world because she can feel embarrassed or insecure about how ticklish she is at her age. I just provided the usual support of saying not to worry about it, and from that, the inside joke was born that I was her tickle therapist. It’s only been brought up a few times since then. As I mentioned, I’d be happy to share the complete story of its origin, but it’d be mostly ust dialogue and inner thoughts.
Upon hearing that the doctor was in, Erica took the bit and ran with it, grabbing a pillow and placing it behind her head as she turned to lay on the couch as if in the stereotypical psychiatrist office. As she did, she swung her legs up so that they, too, would be on the couch, but she seemingly misjudged her distance, for when she swung her legs up, her feet landed on my left leg of my lap.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, realizing that she had miscalculated her dimensions.
“It’s OK,” I said. “I don’t mind.” Understatement of the year.
Erica paused for a moment, as if plotting out all of the statistical analysis in her mind to determine if this was a good idea before finally convincing herself that it was OK and leaving her feet on my leg as she set her head down on the pillow.
My word. This was cruel. Honestly, I had seen Erica’s feet before and they had never looked all that amazing. I mean, while I AM a ticklish foot guy, I’m not necessarily a foot guy in general. If the foot isn’t ticklish, I could take it or leave it. And Erica’s feet had never really stood out to me before. But this day… I don’t know if it was the fact that she had nylons on, I don’t know if it was the fact that they were resting on my leg, or I don’t know if it was the fact that I now knew how excruciatingly ticklish they were, but these feet looked amazing. Through her nylons I could see her deep red - almost a dar maroon - toenail color. Her big toe was the largest on each foot and each toe was smaller in size uniformly. She had the nylons on, of course, but I couldn’t make out any blemishes or flaws anywhere else on her foot. No dry spots. No calluses. These were some flawless feet. No wonder they were so ticklish.
“So you have to understand,” Erica started, unaware of the analysis I was currently doing on her feet, “that these girls used to TORTURE me with tickling when we were in college,” she said staring up at the ceiling.
“Really?” I asked, trying to stay strategic here. I wanted to guide Erica through her story without it seeming like I was trying to coax information out of her. I needed to seem interested but let her do the talking.
“You have no idea,” she continued. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be a girl living on campus at school and to have your friends find out you’re ticklish?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said, trying to keep the mood light.
Erica laughed. “Well, let me tell you, it isn’t easy,” she said. “It’s like you’re a walking bullseye sometimes,” she said.
“Life is tough,” I said, resisting the urge to ask for more details about that.
“First world problems, right?” Erica joked. “Well, I foolishly thought that all of that was behind us and in the past, but apparently I was mistaken.”
“So what happened?” I asked, eagerly awaiting the coming attractions to come to an end so we could get to the feature presentation.
“So it all started out fine - you know, whatever,” she started. “We went out for lunch and then did a little bit of shopping and then we ended up at one of their houses,” she said.
I nodded, showing that I was following along with her story.
“And then at one point, we start talking about Valentine’s Day and the Valentine’s Days that we had back when we were in college,” she continues. “So of course they try to bring up every embarrassing detail that happened back then,” she said with a sigh.
“That’s what friends are for, right?” I said.
“Yeah, well, they kept asking me about this one guy that I went out with on a Valentine’s date during Sophomore year,” Erica continued. “And I really didn’t want to relive that whole night all over again, so I just kept ignoring them, you know?” she said.
“Nothing bad, right?” I asked, not wanting to re-open any old wounds with Erica once again retelling the story of that night.
“No, no,” she said quickly. “Just an embarrassing night that I didn’t want to talk about with them,” she said, offering no more details.
“I get it,” I said, showing that I wasn’t going to make her talk about it if she didn’t want to.
“So Rachel,” Erica continued, “who had already had a glass of wine with lunch and was having another one now - and she’s never been able to hold her liquor,” Erica said, looking up from her story, “well, she then says to everyone, ‘Hey girls, you remember how we used to get Erica to spill the dirt back in the day?”” Erica said with a huff.
“How?” I asked, both not wanting to assume the answer but also wanting to hear her say the answer.
“They’d tickle me to death,” Erica said with a laugh.
“And did it work?” I asked, already knowing the answer, of course.
“What do you think?” Erica asked.
“I didn’t know you then,” I said, trying to explain my question. “Maybe you could tolerate tickling better back when you were younger?” I suggested.
“Well, I appreciate your vote of confidence,” Erica said, “but I’ve pretty much been deathly ticklish since birth, so yes, it worked every single time they tried,” Erica said defeatedly.
“So what happened after Rachel said that?” I asked, steering her back to the events of earlier that day.
“Well, after she said that, I thought, ‘Oh, crap,’ and was hoping that no one else would remember, but then I saw them both smiling so I knew that they remembered,” she said.
“Of all the things to remember,” I said, trying to sympathize with Erica’s plight.
“Right?” she said emphatically. “Well, so then Danielle says, ‘She couldn’t still be ticklish, could she?’ to the other girls, like she’s actually doubting it. And I’m thinking that that is my out, ya know?”.
“Danielle sounds like a good friend,” I said.
Erica laughed. “Yeah, well Rachel not so much,” she continued, “because then she said, ‘Well even if she isn’t, it might be fun, like old times,’ and she, like, wiggled her fingers in the air like this,” she said, demonstrating.
“Rachel sounds ruthless,” I said, still going with the sympathy card.
“Rachel sounded drunk,” Erica said with another laugh. “Well, so then Carrie says, ‘I didn’t even think it was possible to just stop being ticklish’,” Erica continued.
“If only, right?” I said hypothetically.
“You’re telling me,” Erica said with a laugh. “So then Danielle says, ‘I think we put her through enough torture back in college,’ and I’m thinking, ‘Wow, Danielle is friend of the year here’,” Erica said with a laugh.
“So what are you doing when they’re saying all this?” I asked, wondering about Erica’s perspective of things.
“Freaking out,” Erica said, almost as if in the form of a question. “I’m just thinking, ‘What’s the fastest way I can get out of this room?’,” she said with a laugh.
“I bet,” I said, laughing along. “And heels aren’t the best shoes to run in, either, I imagine,” I added.
“Nope,” she said. “So I just said, ‘Come on, girls. That silly stuff is all in the past now, right?’ - you know, just hoping that they’d put an end to it before it began,” she said.
“Yup,” I said, following along.
“And that’s when Rachel started,” Erica said with a sigh. “She just started poking at my sides like this,” she said, demonstrating against the air in front of her by using the pointer finger on each hand to poke in a ticklish manner.
“Oh no,” I said, continuing to offer my sympathy. “What did you do?”
“What COULD I do?” she asked. “I jumped. But unfortunately because I was sitting between Rachel and Carrie, I jumped right into Carrie, and she started doing the same thing,” Erica said with a sigh.
“Yikes, a double attack?” I asked. “Where was Danielle during this?”
“She was sitting on the other side of Carrie,” Erica said.
“Gotcha,” I said.
“So Carrie and Rachel are just taking turns poking me, so when Rachel would poke me, I’d jump to Carrie, but then she’d poke me and I’d jump back to Rachel, and then she’d poke me,” Erica said with a sigh. “I was trapped, basically.”
“A rock and a hard place?” I asked.
“Yup,” Erica said in agreement.
“Where’s Danielle in all of this?” I asked.
“She’s just sitting there at this point,” Erica said.
“How are you handling it at this point?” I asked, trying to phrase the question in such a way that wasn’t creepy.
“I mean, as best as I could,” Erica said with a laugh. “They’re not really tickling necessarily at this point. More like poking,” Erica explained. “So I wasn’t a total mess yet,” she said with a laugh.
“I have a feeling that part’s coming?” I asked.
“Of course it is,” Erica said with another sigh. “So after a few minutes of that, Rachel starts doing this thing with her fingers where she’s pretending she’s a helicopter or something coming in to tickle me,” she explained, demonstrating Rachel’s action.
“A helicopter?” I asked with a laugh.
“I told you,” Erica explained. “She was definitely buzzed at this point,” she said with a laugh. “Anyways,” she continued, “I, like, grab onto Rachel’s hands at this point to get her to stop, so we’re, like, sort of in a test of strength now, ya know?” she said.
“Yeah,”I said, picturing it in my mind.
“So while I’m doing that, I’m not even paying attention to Carrie,” Erica said. “So she sees the opportunity and she goes for it and actually starts tickling me under my arms,” Erica said in a defeated tone.
“Oh no,” I said with sympathy.
“Yup,” Erica said. “And this is tickling, not just poking, so I’m done,” she said with a laugh. “Rachel’s still got my hands from our test of strength so I can’t even block Carrie,” she sighed.
“So what did you do?” I asked.
“Yeah, I pretty much collapsed,” Erica said with a laugh. “So now I’m basically laying across Carrie and Rachel while Carrie’s tickling me under my arms and Rachel’s holding me in place.”
“Tough spot,” I said.
“Well, it was about to get worse,” Erica said.
“How could it get worse?” I asked, pretending to be in disbelief but beyond thankful that there was still more to come.
“Well, so out of the blue,” Erica said with a huff. “Danielle goes, ‘Girls, weren’t her feet her most ticklish spot?’,” Erica said with annoyance.
“No,” I said, feigning disbelief.
“Yes,” Erica said as if she believed that I couldn’t believe it.
“So what happened then?” I asked, all too eager to hear the details.
“So Danielle goes over and grabs my legs,” Erica said.
“Shut up!” I said.
“She did,” Erica said.
“Did you have your shoes on still?” I asked, immediately regretting asking a question that sounded “too-TMF”.
“Fortunately, yeah,” Erica said, not picking up on any TMF-ness. “I was thinking that that was my only hope, but then she started taking my boots off,” Erica said.
“No, she did not,” I said, again with the disbelief.
“She did,” Erica said.
“So what’s going through your mind at this point?” I asked, trying to sap every last detail I could out of this story.
“Honestly,” Erica said with a laugh, “all I’m thinking at this point is, ‘Oh my God, not my feet’,” she laughed.
“Your weakness,” I said, thinking I could weave that TMF word into the conversation by showing sympathy.
“I knowwww,” she said with emphasis.
“So then what happened? Did she get your shoes off?” I asked.
“Oh with ease,” Erica said.
“Didn’t you put up a fight?” I asked, knowing the answer to the question already.
“I couldn’t,” she said with a slight whine. “Carrie just kept tickling me under my arms, so I had, like, no strength,” she said.
“So then what?” I asked.
“So Danielle pulls my boots and my socks off,” Erica said.
“Were you wearing nylons then, too?” I asked, admittedly jumping the gun a bit and wishing I hadn’t asked the question immediately.
“Yeah,” Erica said. “They’re pantyhose,” she said with a look as if I were dumb for asking.
“I’m a guy,” I reminded her. “How am I supposed to know?” I asked - without mentioning, of course, the hundreds of times I had also worn pantyhose under jeans behind a locked door. Haha
“You men are all the same,” she said with a laugh.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said jokingly, dismissing her insult. “So Danielle has your shoes and socks off. Then what?”
“So,” Erica said, resuming her story. “Somehow while laughing I managed to blurt out, ‘Not my feet!’ because Rachel heard me say that and said to Danielle, ‘Let me give you a hand down there’, and she lets go of my hands and moves over so she’s sitting with Danielle at my feet, too,” Erica said.
“Oh no,” I said, now with genuine empathy. “This is turning out to be your worst nightmare, isn’t it?”
“Definitely,” she agreed quickly. “So Danielle starts on my feet and I’m, like, done in a nano-second,” she said with a laugh.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, really unable to form any other thoughts.
“Well, you know how ticklish my feet are,” she reminded me. “So I’m, like, literally uncontrollably laughing at this point and everyone else is laughing it up having a grand ol’ time at my expense,” she added. “The only solace I got was that Carrie had stopped tickling under my arms so she could watch me spazzing out while Danielle tickled my feet,” she said.
“What an ordeal,” I said, not sure if the story was wrapping up or if there’d be more.
“You’re telling me,” she said. “So after a minute, Rachel decides she wants a turn so she joins in with Danielle and I’ve got the both of them tickling my feet now,” she said with a sigh.
“Oh no, two-on-one?” I asked. “What did you do?”
“All I could do was laugh,” she said. “And laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh,” she continued, proving her point.
“Yikes, that must have been torture for you,” I repeated.
“It was,” she said.
“Did you ever tell them what they wanted to hear?” I asked.
“Well, I couldn’t at this point because I’m literally dying of laughter,” she said. “But yeah, once they stopped, I told them everything they wanted to hear, are you kidding?” she laughed.
“And you said they used to do this to you all the time?” I asked.
“All. The. Time,” she said with emphasis “Like not even joking, it feels like it happened almost daily,” she said.
“Wow,” I said. “Must have been tough.”
“You have no idea,” she said.
Sensing the story - and therapy session - was coming to an end, I stole one last glance down at her feet as they lay on my leg. I contemplated their vulnerability as they lay there, void of any protection except for the thin layer of sheer nylon covering them. I thought of the irony of the fact that this poor woman is so impacted by her own ticklishness that she goes to such great lengths to try to hide it, but yet she’s chosen a card-carrying member of the TMF to confide in.
“Thanks for the therapy session,” she said, getting up and snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Anytime,” I said. “Whenever you need it.”
“Yeah, well hopefully I won’t need it ever again,” she said with a laugh.
And that was it. But boy oh boy to have been a fly on the wall just a little earlier…
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
