Takahane
Registered User
- Joined
- Apr 16, 2006
- Messages
- 13
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- 3
It's always the girlfriend that gives you up. Oh, she'll say she didn't mean to, that it wasn't supposed to work out that way ... but invariably, she gives you up. You trust her, you bring her into your world, you tell her your deepest, darkest secrets -- and she goes and does the girly thing that sorority girls do and shares your confidence with her little circle of little friends.
My near-fatal mistake was admitting my weakness to my first college girlfriend, Debbie Lynn. When we started dating, she was always fooling around, trying to start something -- as young adolescents are wont to do. The worst was her "tickle-testing" me, as she called it. When she dug her fingers into my sides, I was a total goner -- the victim of an immediate and severe hypersensitivity that forced me into convulsions of laughter, rapidly devolving into silent shaking as I lost the ability to vocalize. Afterward I told her that the experience was extremely anguishing for me, inducing an intense fear and feelings of panic so strong that all that I could think about was getting away. I begged her to promise never to tell anyone else about my weakness. She agreed.
She lied.
We didn't date for very long -- it was college, after all, plenty of fish in the sea and all that. But shortly after we broke up, I began to repeatedly find myself the victim of "surprise attacks" while I'm walking the hallways between classes, when some girl sneaks up behind me and suddenly jams her nails into my ribs before I'm even aware of her presence, unable to mount any sort of defense against the attack. Of course, my over-exaggerated reaction to this assault delights the small crowd of Debbie's little clique that somehow always seems to be available to witness my little dance of humiliation.
The worst time? Well ... it's been quite a few years since this next little escapade took place. Let's just say that I've become a more seasoned person, experienced two marriages, a major career change, near-commitment to a mental facility -- but when I recall this experience, I still feel shivers crawling up my spine and ghostly fingers probing my midsection.
Band trip. We finish our performance and file back onto our waiting buses, take off our uniform jackets and put away our instruments. I'm walking up the aisle of the bus when Beverly stops me and asks, "Alex, would you mind getting my saxophone case out of the overhead? You're taller than me." Without a second thought -- a common circumstance most times when I find myself in trouble, not having that second thought -- I reach up to the bin with both hands and am just about to grab hold of the case when I feel Bev's hands grab hold of my sides.
I instinctively flinch and try to draw my arms down quickly to protect myself. I'm already leaning when my body violently arches forward in a vain attempt to pull away from Bev's grasp. Too late! I'm falling, and I can't grab hold of anything to break my fall -- and seeing as Bev still has a grip on my rib cage that tightens as I tip forward, she is falling right along with me.
I hit hard, chest-first, on the flat bus seat, my arms flailing uselessly above my head. An instant later, Bev lands on top of me ... and this -- this sound is forced out of me.
You know like, when you have a balloon and you stretch the neck and force some air out, and it makes that sound? It sounds like squeezing a giant, ticklish squeaky toy.
The entire bus falls deathly silent for about a second -- and then everyone burst out in uproarious laughter. Bev takes that as her cue; she digs and wiggles her sharp fingernails up and down my pinned ribcage, which overwhelms my senses and immediately renders me silent, shaking helplessly in forced hysteria.
As she attacked me while her friends continued to laugh at my predicament, I could feel my face reddening, my embarrassment and frustration growing stronger. Bev probably tickled my ribs for only about 45 seconds or so, although of course it felt like much longer than that. Finally, apparently satisfied with her ministrations, she stopped.
But then, it got worse.
At last able to take in a lungful of air, I gasped out in a barely-perceptible voice --
"You ... bitch."
All of the little clique girls made that sound -- you know, it starts out low and builds, kinda like "whhoooOOOOOAAAAAHHhhh!"
Bev leans down, puts her lips close to my ear and says, "Now you're gonna get it."
Every fiber in my being shot to attention -- and the only conscious thought that I had time to form was: "Uh-oh."
I don't recall much of anything that happened after that.
All that I can say for certain is that I came to about a half-hour later, lying on the bus floor, mumbling to myself.
Yeah. The girlfriend always gives you up.
True story. (EDIT: Well, I had to shift the time frame from high school [when it actually took place] to college, to honor and comply with the site's "no minors" story policy.)
My near-fatal mistake was admitting my weakness to my first college girlfriend, Debbie Lynn. When we started dating, she was always fooling around, trying to start something -- as young adolescents are wont to do. The worst was her "tickle-testing" me, as she called it. When she dug her fingers into my sides, I was a total goner -- the victim of an immediate and severe hypersensitivity that forced me into convulsions of laughter, rapidly devolving into silent shaking as I lost the ability to vocalize. Afterward I told her that the experience was extremely anguishing for me, inducing an intense fear and feelings of panic so strong that all that I could think about was getting away. I begged her to promise never to tell anyone else about my weakness. She agreed.
She lied.
We didn't date for very long -- it was college, after all, plenty of fish in the sea and all that. But shortly after we broke up, I began to repeatedly find myself the victim of "surprise attacks" while I'm walking the hallways between classes, when some girl sneaks up behind me and suddenly jams her nails into my ribs before I'm even aware of her presence, unable to mount any sort of defense against the attack. Of course, my over-exaggerated reaction to this assault delights the small crowd of Debbie's little clique that somehow always seems to be available to witness my little dance of humiliation.
The worst time? Well ... it's been quite a few years since this next little escapade took place. Let's just say that I've become a more seasoned person, experienced two marriages, a major career change, near-commitment to a mental facility -- but when I recall this experience, I still feel shivers crawling up my spine and ghostly fingers probing my midsection.
Band trip. We finish our performance and file back onto our waiting buses, take off our uniform jackets and put away our instruments. I'm walking up the aisle of the bus when Beverly stops me and asks, "Alex, would you mind getting my saxophone case out of the overhead? You're taller than me." Without a second thought -- a common circumstance most times when I find myself in trouble, not having that second thought -- I reach up to the bin with both hands and am just about to grab hold of the case when I feel Bev's hands grab hold of my sides.
I instinctively flinch and try to draw my arms down quickly to protect myself. I'm already leaning when my body violently arches forward in a vain attempt to pull away from Bev's grasp. Too late! I'm falling, and I can't grab hold of anything to break my fall -- and seeing as Bev still has a grip on my rib cage that tightens as I tip forward, she is falling right along with me.
I hit hard, chest-first, on the flat bus seat, my arms flailing uselessly above my head. An instant later, Bev lands on top of me ... and this -- this sound is forced out of me.
You know like, when you have a balloon and you stretch the neck and force some air out, and it makes that sound? It sounds like squeezing a giant, ticklish squeaky toy.
The entire bus falls deathly silent for about a second -- and then everyone burst out in uproarious laughter. Bev takes that as her cue; she digs and wiggles her sharp fingernails up and down my pinned ribcage, which overwhelms my senses and immediately renders me silent, shaking helplessly in forced hysteria.
As she attacked me while her friends continued to laugh at my predicament, I could feel my face reddening, my embarrassment and frustration growing stronger. Bev probably tickled my ribs for only about 45 seconds or so, although of course it felt like much longer than that. Finally, apparently satisfied with her ministrations, she stopped.
But then, it got worse.
At last able to take in a lungful of air, I gasped out in a barely-perceptible voice --
"You ... bitch."
All of the little clique girls made that sound -- you know, it starts out low and builds, kinda like "whhoooOOOOOAAAAAHHhhh!"
Bev leans down, puts her lips close to my ear and says, "Now you're gonna get it."
Every fiber in my being shot to attention -- and the only conscious thought that I had time to form was: "Uh-oh."
I don't recall much of anything that happened after that.
All that I can say for certain is that I came to about a half-hour later, lying on the bus floor, mumbling to myself.
Yeah. The girlfriend always gives you up.
True story. (EDIT: Well, I had to shift the time frame from high school [when it actually took place] to college, to honor and comply with the site's "no minors" story policy.)
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