OldEnglish
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2001
- Messages
- 235
- Points
- 18
Thank you all so much for your comments on the last installment of Erica’s ordeals.
Within that story, I mentioned that an inside joke between Erica and me is that I had become Erica’s “tickle therapist”. This is the story of how that came to be.
Full disclosure upfront: there is such little actual tickling in this story that I almost feel bad putting it in the True Tickling section. However, there is one slight incident, which of course sparks the events that you are about to read and that you may have already read. That being said, though, there is a lot of dialogue and description in this tale, so if that is not your cup of tea, this may not be your favorite story.
Picture it: Thanksgiving, 2022.
I’ve always wanted to start a story like that.
Anyways, this tale take place after the trip to the country fair during which we learned of Erica’s penchant for wearing nylons under jeans and after the incident where Erica’s husband tickled her in front of Morgan for the first time, but before both the incident where Morgan tickled Erica and before the incident where Erica’s friends tickled her.
We had all gathered at the in-laws for the holiday, with all members of their family and their spouses present. One of my other brothers-in-law was running late to the event; I swear he and his wife have been late for every event. They finally arrived, and you could tell right away that both were in a mood. No doubt, as was the usual case, the two had had some kind of argument prior to arriving - she didn’t always enjoy coming to my in-laws for holidays - and now he had arrived with a hair across his behind that he couldn’t resolve with her, so the only questions that remained were who would face his wrath and when.
It didn’t take long. The two of them ventured into a backroom for a moment, and when they came out, my brother-in-law began arguing with my mother-in-law. That then resulted in my father-in-law joining in the argument, followed then by my sister-in-law, clearly the catalyst of this entire ordeal. Eventually, all family members were involved, including some spouses. While it wasn’t a physical altercation or anything like that, it was certainly uncomfortable being an “outsider”; as such, Erica and I both found our way to the backroom to sit on a couch and look at our phones while we waited out WrestleMania 32 in the other room.
With seemingly no end in sight, I sorted through my mental Rolodex to see what topics of conversation I could bring up to avoid this room becoming as awkward as the other room. At this point in the timeline, Erica and I were, of course, cordial with each other, but conversation didn’t come as natural between us back then as it does now.
We exchanged a few comments - joked about the awkward situation unfolding in the other room, discussed how hungry we were, how much we were looking forward to dessert…
Eventually, Erica adjusted how she was sitting on the couch, pulling her legs up from the floor so that they were now tucked to her side, facing me. She momentarily wrapped her hand around her shins to secure her legs in place.
And that’s when I noticed it.
It being a holiday, everyone was reasonably dressed up, though nothing too extravagant. Jeans were certainly permissible, though everyone made sure to bring out their “good” jeans” for this event, and Erica was no exception. She had worn a pair of jeans with a white camisole and a deep blue sweater. Her ankle booties had been removed as soon as she entered the house, revealing a pair of black ankle socks that she had been wearing.
I won’t lie; I was a bit disappointed. As I mentioned, this was shortly after the incident from the fair where Erica had admitted to frequently wearing nylons under jeans, so I was a bit disappointed to find that her definition of ‘frequently’ seemingly differed with mine.
But now, with her sitting the way she was and because of our general proximity on the couch, I could see what she was hiding. Yes, she was wearing a pair of black ankle socks that molded tightly to her feet, but between the top of the sock and the hem of her jeans was a narrow layer of material giving off a slight sheen.
Nylons.
Of course I would have missed them before. When she was walking, her jeans reached the top of her socks, thereby blocking out any view in between. She also hadn’t been as close in proximity to me then as she was now. It would have been - and indeed was - downright impossible to catch it before. But now there was no mistaking it.
Needing something to break the awkwardness anyways, and always searching for a way to seamlessly weave this into a conversation (as difficult as it may be), I looked over to Erica and said, “Well, I see it’s another nylons under your jeans kind of day, huh?”. And while I was asking, I was using my index finger to point out where I could see the nylons - thinking, otherwise, she might wonder how in the world I knew she had nylons on. So I had moved my finger close to her foot.
But I goofed. Maybe it was a Freudian slip. Maybe it’s because I was trying to maintain eye contact with Erica so it didn't seem like I was looking at the nylons? Who knows? But I miscalculated the distance my finger had to travel and it landed too close, brushing against Erica’s ankle as I was pointing out the nylons.
Erica gasped and jumped practically a foot in the air, quickly pulling her feet under her body as she regrouped. In my mind, I’m thinking, ‘Crap’ because Freudian slip or not, I definitely hadn’t intended to actually physically touch her.
I apologized immediately, saying I hadn’t meant to startle her. It was clearly a ticklish reaction. At this point, I knew how ticklish she was. But I didn’t even want to say the word “tickle”. She brushed it off, saying it was OK. I apologized again, joking, “We don’t need anything else happening today, right?” in reference to the argument that was still ongoing in the other room
“No, no,” she said with a laugh. “It’s nothing like that at all,” she explained. “It just… tickled,” she admitted, pausing before finally saying the “t” word, as if even she herself had been trying to figure out if she could say it out loud.
I was happy that she was the first one to say the word - and certainly the TMFer in me was happy to have at least something to talk about at some point - but I apologized again, explaining to her that it wasn’t my intention to tickle her and that I didn’t even mean to touch her foot, let alone tickle it.
She laughed, patting my shoulder quickly. “No, you’re seriously fine,” she said. “I know you weren’t trying to tickle me,” she said reassuringly, realizing, I think, why I might have been worried had she felt that way. “I’m just a spazz who is absurdly ticklish,” she said with a sigh, as if a portion of herself had deflated following that admission.
“Ah, OK,” I said, not sure what else I should say having never actually talked to her about this at this point. “Well, that makes sense.”
“It’s super embarrassing,” she said, opening up a little.
“I wouldn’t think so,” I said, now trying to reassure her.
“I was babysitting my 8 year-old niece last week,” she said matter-of-factly while looking at me. “And she beat me in a tickle fight,” she said, in a “mic-drop” tone.
“Ah,” I said, still unsure of what exactly I should be saying. “I see.”
“Yup,” Erica said, channeling her inner Elaine Benes from Seinfield.
“Well,” I said, grasping at something to see if there was a way that I could nonchalantly continue the conversation. “Lots of people are ticklish, no?”
She didn’t reply. She just tilted her head in my direction with a raised eyebrow, as if saying, ‘Really?’.
“OK,” I said, conceding the point. “Maybe not many adults are losing tickle fights to 8 year-olds,” I continued.
“I rest my case,” she said.
“Well, your secret is safe with me,” I said, not knowing where else I could possibly take the conversation.
“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “You know,” she added after a brief pause, pulling her feet back out from under her body. “That was actually kind of therapeutic.”
“What?” I asked.
“Admitting to you that I’m absurdly ticklish,” she answered.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, formulating this all out in her mind as she explained. “You know how they say the first step is acceptance, right?” she said with a laugh.
“I’ll send you my therapist bill at the end of the month,” I joked.
She laughed. “No, I’m actually being serious,” she explained. “I know it sounds silly. But it’s usually so embarrassing to admit to someone how ticklish I am,” she said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she went on, seemingly as if this really was therapeutic in some way for her. “It wasn’t so bad when I was younger,” she said, “because you’re supposed to be ticklish when you’re young, right? But isn’t it supposed to go away as you get older?”
“Is it?” I asked.
“I thought so,” she said, as if now doubting herself. “Maybe not,” she said, the doubt taking over in her mind. “Ugh,” she moaned, tossing her head back. “Am I going to be this ticklish for the rest of my life?”
“There are worse things that could happen, no?” I said, trying to make her look at the positive.
“It’s so embarrassing,” she repeated. “And it stinks because usually when someone does find out I’m ticklish, of course they just start tickling,” she said with dismay. “So I’ve just tried to go out of my way to hide it,” she continued explaining.
“I really don’t think there’s anything to be embarrassed about,” I said.
“Well, you’re a good tickle therapist, then,” she said with a laugh. “But just to be on the safe side, don’t go telling anyone that I admitted to being so ticklish,” she said with hope in her eye.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said.
And that was it. Nothing much has come of it short of a few jokes and then of course my last story, but it's at least something...
Within that story, I mentioned that an inside joke between Erica and me is that I had become Erica’s “tickle therapist”. This is the story of how that came to be.
Full disclosure upfront: there is such little actual tickling in this story that I almost feel bad putting it in the True Tickling section. However, there is one slight incident, which of course sparks the events that you are about to read and that you may have already read. That being said, though, there is a lot of dialogue and description in this tale, so if that is not your cup of tea, this may not be your favorite story.
Picture it: Thanksgiving, 2022.
I’ve always wanted to start a story like that.
Anyways, this tale take place after the trip to the country fair during which we learned of Erica’s penchant for wearing nylons under jeans and after the incident where Erica’s husband tickled her in front of Morgan for the first time, but before both the incident where Morgan tickled Erica and before the incident where Erica’s friends tickled her.
We had all gathered at the in-laws for the holiday, with all members of their family and their spouses present. One of my other brothers-in-law was running late to the event; I swear he and his wife have been late for every event. They finally arrived, and you could tell right away that both were in a mood. No doubt, as was the usual case, the two had had some kind of argument prior to arriving - she didn’t always enjoy coming to my in-laws for holidays - and now he had arrived with a hair across his behind that he couldn’t resolve with her, so the only questions that remained were who would face his wrath and when.
It didn’t take long. The two of them ventured into a backroom for a moment, and when they came out, my brother-in-law began arguing with my mother-in-law. That then resulted in my father-in-law joining in the argument, followed then by my sister-in-law, clearly the catalyst of this entire ordeal. Eventually, all family members were involved, including some spouses. While it wasn’t a physical altercation or anything like that, it was certainly uncomfortable being an “outsider”; as such, Erica and I both found our way to the backroom to sit on a couch and look at our phones while we waited out WrestleMania 32 in the other room.
With seemingly no end in sight, I sorted through my mental Rolodex to see what topics of conversation I could bring up to avoid this room becoming as awkward as the other room. At this point in the timeline, Erica and I were, of course, cordial with each other, but conversation didn’t come as natural between us back then as it does now.
We exchanged a few comments - joked about the awkward situation unfolding in the other room, discussed how hungry we were, how much we were looking forward to dessert…
Eventually, Erica adjusted how she was sitting on the couch, pulling her legs up from the floor so that they were now tucked to her side, facing me. She momentarily wrapped her hand around her shins to secure her legs in place.
And that’s when I noticed it.
It being a holiday, everyone was reasonably dressed up, though nothing too extravagant. Jeans were certainly permissible, though everyone made sure to bring out their “good” jeans” for this event, and Erica was no exception. She had worn a pair of jeans with a white camisole and a deep blue sweater. Her ankle booties had been removed as soon as she entered the house, revealing a pair of black ankle socks that she had been wearing.
I won’t lie; I was a bit disappointed. As I mentioned, this was shortly after the incident from the fair where Erica had admitted to frequently wearing nylons under jeans, so I was a bit disappointed to find that her definition of ‘frequently’ seemingly differed with mine.
But now, with her sitting the way she was and because of our general proximity on the couch, I could see what she was hiding. Yes, she was wearing a pair of black ankle socks that molded tightly to her feet, but between the top of the sock and the hem of her jeans was a narrow layer of material giving off a slight sheen.
Nylons.
Of course I would have missed them before. When she was walking, her jeans reached the top of her socks, thereby blocking out any view in between. She also hadn’t been as close in proximity to me then as she was now. It would have been - and indeed was - downright impossible to catch it before. But now there was no mistaking it.
Needing something to break the awkwardness anyways, and always searching for a way to seamlessly weave this into a conversation (as difficult as it may be), I looked over to Erica and said, “Well, I see it’s another nylons under your jeans kind of day, huh?”. And while I was asking, I was using my index finger to point out where I could see the nylons - thinking, otherwise, she might wonder how in the world I knew she had nylons on. So I had moved my finger close to her foot.
But I goofed. Maybe it was a Freudian slip. Maybe it’s because I was trying to maintain eye contact with Erica so it didn't seem like I was looking at the nylons? Who knows? But I miscalculated the distance my finger had to travel and it landed too close, brushing against Erica’s ankle as I was pointing out the nylons.
Erica gasped and jumped practically a foot in the air, quickly pulling her feet under her body as she regrouped. In my mind, I’m thinking, ‘Crap’ because Freudian slip or not, I definitely hadn’t intended to actually physically touch her.
I apologized immediately, saying I hadn’t meant to startle her. It was clearly a ticklish reaction. At this point, I knew how ticklish she was. But I didn’t even want to say the word “tickle”. She brushed it off, saying it was OK. I apologized again, joking, “We don’t need anything else happening today, right?” in reference to the argument that was still ongoing in the other room
“No, no,” she said with a laugh. “It’s nothing like that at all,” she explained. “It just… tickled,” she admitted, pausing before finally saying the “t” word, as if even she herself had been trying to figure out if she could say it out loud.
I was happy that she was the first one to say the word - and certainly the TMFer in me was happy to have at least something to talk about at some point - but I apologized again, explaining to her that it wasn’t my intention to tickle her and that I didn’t even mean to touch her foot, let alone tickle it.
She laughed, patting my shoulder quickly. “No, you’re seriously fine,” she said. “I know you weren’t trying to tickle me,” she said reassuringly, realizing, I think, why I might have been worried had she felt that way. “I’m just a spazz who is absurdly ticklish,” she said with a sigh, as if a portion of herself had deflated following that admission.
“Ah, OK,” I said, not sure what else I should say having never actually talked to her about this at this point. “Well, that makes sense.”
“It’s super embarrassing,” she said, opening up a little.
“I wouldn’t think so,” I said, now trying to reassure her.
“I was babysitting my 8 year-old niece last week,” she said matter-of-factly while looking at me. “And she beat me in a tickle fight,” she said, in a “mic-drop” tone.
“Ah,” I said, still unsure of what exactly I should be saying. “I see.”
“Yup,” Erica said, channeling her inner Elaine Benes from Seinfield.
“Well,” I said, grasping at something to see if there was a way that I could nonchalantly continue the conversation. “Lots of people are ticklish, no?”
She didn’t reply. She just tilted her head in my direction with a raised eyebrow, as if saying, ‘Really?’.
“OK,” I said, conceding the point. “Maybe not many adults are losing tickle fights to 8 year-olds,” I continued.
“I rest my case,” she said.
“Well, your secret is safe with me,” I said, not knowing where else I could possibly take the conversation.
“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “You know,” she added after a brief pause, pulling her feet back out from under her body. “That was actually kind of therapeutic.”
“What?” I asked.
“Admitting to you that I’m absurdly ticklish,” she answered.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, formulating this all out in her mind as she explained. “You know how they say the first step is acceptance, right?” she said with a laugh.
“I’ll send you my therapist bill at the end of the month,” I joked.
She laughed. “No, I’m actually being serious,” she explained. “I know it sounds silly. But it’s usually so embarrassing to admit to someone how ticklish I am,” she said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she went on, seemingly as if this really was therapeutic in some way for her. “It wasn’t so bad when I was younger,” she said, “because you’re supposed to be ticklish when you’re young, right? But isn’t it supposed to go away as you get older?”
“Is it?” I asked.
“I thought so,” she said, as if now doubting herself. “Maybe not,” she said, the doubt taking over in her mind. “Ugh,” she moaned, tossing her head back. “Am I going to be this ticklish for the rest of my life?”
“There are worse things that could happen, no?” I said, trying to make her look at the positive.
“It’s so embarrassing,” she repeated. “And it stinks because usually when someone does find out I’m ticklish, of course they just start tickling,” she said with dismay. “So I’ve just tried to go out of my way to hide it,” she continued explaining.
“I really don’t think there’s anything to be embarrassed about,” I said.
“Well, you’re a good tickle therapist, then,” she said with a laugh. “But just to be on the safe side, don’t go telling anyone that I admitted to being so ticklish,” she said with hope in her eye.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said.
And that was it. Nothing much has come of it short of a few jokes and then of course my last story, but it's at least something...
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
