Tickling while you're on the phone is a prime example of the desperate need not to react to an irresistible stimulus.
One night I was lying on my back on the bed talking on the phone to my supervisor from work, Jenny--a pale and statuesque, but also sort of brittle and humorless, brunette. I was about to go on a trip for work and whenever this was the case Jenny insisted on going over the presentations I’d be making in lengthy detail. My girlfriend at the time, Laura, wasn’t a fan of my job, and was particularly disenchanted with Jenny.
It was when Laura wandered into the bedroom and flopped on the bed, using the weight of her torso to pin my ankles under her armpit, that I knew I was in trouble; when she peeled off my socks that only confirmed it.
Jenny continued droning on and I was wildly gesturing at Laura, waving my hands at her, trying to say “cease and desist” with my gestures and my eyes. I held both my palms up at her and waved my hands back and forth, mouthing the words Don’t Do It. Don’t Do It. Laura just looked at me and gave that crooked smile of hers and wrinkled her nose at me in an expression of girlish mischief.
Her left hand lay on the bed, hidden from me by my own pale naked foot; her other arm was propped up by the elbow, wrist bent, hand dangling in calm repose. Then she curled the fingers of that hand so that only her index finger was extended. And then she lowered that hand steadily toward my trapped feet.
Laura planted her one finger firmly on the sole of my foot. Wracked with anticipation, my whole body jumped as I stifled the impulse to cry out. Then she lifted the finger again and planted it on another spot of that sole. And another. And another. No actual tickling, but a merciless display of dominance: she could reduce me to helplessness without even tickling, and I was powerless not only to get away but even to say anything. I couldn’t even complain. All I could do was lie there uttering strangled “Okays” and “Uh-huhs” as my feet curled involuntarily each time her fingertip landed.
Then her finger was off my foot, and there was nothing. This was the first I realized I’d had my eyes closed, and I opened them and looked down at Laura. She was still there, still smiling sweetly, still pinning me down; her chin rested cheerfully on her right hand.
“What are you going to say about the rankings?” Jenny asked me at that moment. At the very moment that Laura had removed her chin from her palm, extended two fingers, and started spidering them prettily in the air, her great soft forearm muscles fluttering as she did so, lowering that hand inexorably toward my feet again. I shook my head again desperately; I cradled the phone against my shoulder and clapped my hands together in an abject pleading posture. “Please!” I mouthed. “Please!”
“Wade?” Jenny said.
“Yeah?” I said tensely, Laura’s fingers now just centimeters from my cowering feet.
“Wade, are you all right?”
Jenny’s question was the last thing I heard before Laura’s two fingers started crawling briskly down my sole and back up again. I clamped my mouth shut as my body surged with unbridled ticklishness. This was the occasion on which I found out that if you try not to make any noise while you’re being tickled, the suppressed frantic energy releases itself through an increased violence in your physical activity. My back arched, I rocked wildly from side to side, and Laura told me later she’d never seen my toes curl and flex so crazily or my feet twitch so madly. This didn’t inspire Laura to be merciful of course; instead, she added the spidering action of her other hand to my other foot
“Wade?” Jenny said again.
Speaking at all was an enormous risk; unclamping my jaws would surely unleash a torrent of helpless giggles that would be difficult to explain. But Jenny was waiting. Gripping the side of the mattress with my free hand I said “Let.” More shuddering as silent laughter gripped my body. “Me. Check,” I grunted. Clapped my hand to my mouth, shaking my head from side to side. Just one more... “MYNOTES!” Then more back arching as I pounded the sheets with my free hand and struggled to regain control. I squinted down at Laura at the end of the bed; she made an exaggerated facial expression to indicate she was impressed with my performance and gave me a hearty thumbs-up before returning both hands to the job of merrily tickling my feet.
“Okay,” Jenny sighed, sounding exasperated.
I held the phone away from my head and wriggled and writhed, giggles escaping my lips as strangled squeaks and high-pitched animal sounds. Finally, Laura stopped, covering her own mouth to keep from laughing out loud. I returned the phone to my ear and said, “Yeah, I was just thinking the usual spiel...”
And then all ten of Laura’s fingertips resumed dancing softly, swiftly, and intolerably up and down my feet. Her left hand scrambled up and down my right foot from where her arm lay on the bed; her right hand dangled over the top of my foot, wrist bent over my toes, as her fingers took longer scribbly paths up and down my left foot.
The surprise assault caught me off guard; I interrupted my own sentence with a noise something like “KUH HEE HEE” and rolled my face over into the pillow, counting on it to muffle my helpless guffaws. But Laura just wouldn’t stop and she wouldn’t stop and her fingers tickled and she wouldn’t stop and finally I struggled blindly to find the mute button on the receiver with my thumb and once I found it and punched it with a tiny beep I rolled back on my back, giggling full-throated and uncontrollably, begging incoherently through the helpless laughter “PLEASE PLEASE PLEHEHEASE!” After all that it was almost a relief just to give in to the ignominious hysteria of helpless ticklish laughter--“PLEASE CANTTAKEIT LAHAURA PLEASE”--and I giggled and giggled until I was hoarse and Laura finally stopped.
When Laura finally stopped I lay panting on the bed and started fumbling my thumb around to release the mute button, preparing to offer an excuse about phone problems. But before I could find the button I heard Jenny’s voice, tinny and annoyed, emanating clearly from the receiver: “Wade?”
I hadn’t pressed the mute button.
I’d pressed speakerphone.
“Wade?”
Swallowing, blushing furiously, ignoring the spectacle of Laura silently laughing herself silly at the bottom of the bed, I said, “I’m sorry, Jenny, I’m so sorry, she was tickling me.”
“Who?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Was tickling you.”
“Yeah.”
“Right now. While we were talking.”
“I’m sorry, Jenny.”
“Okay,” Jenny said after a long silence. “Maybe we should finish this rundown later. Call me when you get to Portland.”
She hung up without saying goodbye. Laura proceeded to laugh at me until she was breathless.
