Margie: One who got away (m/f, f/m)
When I was a college student in the fall of 1981 I met a cute little blonde named Margie, who was visiting her cousin and my friend Sharon at the campus. We seemed to connect, though I had no idea we would have as much in common as I was about to learn.
At a party during her stay, I invited Margie to come home with me. While she turned down that offer, we fooled around a little then and there. Not a bad counteroffer. The next day Margie, her cousin Sharon and I ran some errands together. During our travels, Margie and I pinched one another’s rear ends.
As this was about 25 years ago, I forget how long Margie’s visit was – it was at least a weekend but no longer than a week. Some time into her stay, Margie and I wound up alone in my apartment. At one point Margie sat on my lap and I tickled her midsection. As my fingers probed about her ribs and stomach, Margie laughed and squirmed. I noticed, however, that she wasn’t resisting me. It was as if Margie liked being tickled. That was a first to a naïve dope like me!
Always a klutz with women, I didn’t play Margie’s ticklishness and passivity that well, even though I of course enjoyed tickling her. I moved to make it as romantic as Margie would allow, setting the tickling aside in my pursuit.
Later as Margie and I prepared to leave my place, I raised the topic of tickling. I forget how the conversation went, but I was curious as to why Margie didn’t resist my tickles. But I do recall what happened when I mentioned I was also ticklish, as Margie lit up as if I had turned on a light in a pitch-black room.
“You’re ticklish?” Margie said. “I love to tickle!” Margie tickled me and, while I don’t remember all the details of the tickle play, at one point she said she would like to tie me up and tickle me.
But another detail I do recall: As we finally approached the door to leave, Margie dove into me, half-tackling as she tickled me one last time.
Before departing from her visit, Margie told me she was living in Newark, NJ, as she was a nursing student at one of that city’s colleges. My home town, where I would spend Christmas break, was not far from there, so Margie gave me her phone number.
But you know that youth is wasted on young people, especially the scared, insecure person I was as a young man. Newark? That may as well have been Baghdad the way I looked at it. Never mind that this little blonde woman had no problem living there.
The next sentence summarizes one of the greatest regrets of my life. I never called Margie. Of all the opportunities I’ve blown, it is near the top of the list, if not number one.
Would Margie have wanted to see me? Who knows – as any single who gets a phone number knows, by time you dial, someone’s mind could have changed. But meeting the first admitted female tickle freak of my life called for at least one phone call. Especially when you’re about as much a ladies’ man as the Pope, as I was.
The funny thing was, Margie’s cousin Sharon liked me. I liked Sharon as a friend, though, and never exploited the friendship as a way to get to Margie. Sharon and I lost touch not long after I finished school.
Margie, where are you today?
When I was a college student in the fall of 1981 I met a cute little blonde named Margie, who was visiting her cousin and my friend Sharon at the campus. We seemed to connect, though I had no idea we would have as much in common as I was about to learn.
At a party during her stay, I invited Margie to come home with me. While she turned down that offer, we fooled around a little then and there. Not a bad counteroffer. The next day Margie, her cousin Sharon and I ran some errands together. During our travels, Margie and I pinched one another’s rear ends.
As this was about 25 years ago, I forget how long Margie’s visit was – it was at least a weekend but no longer than a week. Some time into her stay, Margie and I wound up alone in my apartment. At one point Margie sat on my lap and I tickled her midsection. As my fingers probed about her ribs and stomach, Margie laughed and squirmed. I noticed, however, that she wasn’t resisting me. It was as if Margie liked being tickled. That was a first to a naïve dope like me!
Always a klutz with women, I didn’t play Margie’s ticklishness and passivity that well, even though I of course enjoyed tickling her. I moved to make it as romantic as Margie would allow, setting the tickling aside in my pursuit.
Later as Margie and I prepared to leave my place, I raised the topic of tickling. I forget how the conversation went, but I was curious as to why Margie didn’t resist my tickles. But I do recall what happened when I mentioned I was also ticklish, as Margie lit up as if I had turned on a light in a pitch-black room.
“You’re ticklish?” Margie said. “I love to tickle!” Margie tickled me and, while I don’t remember all the details of the tickle play, at one point she said she would like to tie me up and tickle me.
But another detail I do recall: As we finally approached the door to leave, Margie dove into me, half-tackling as she tickled me one last time.
Before departing from her visit, Margie told me she was living in Newark, NJ, as she was a nursing student at one of that city’s colleges. My home town, where I would spend Christmas break, was not far from there, so Margie gave me her phone number.
But you know that youth is wasted on young people, especially the scared, insecure person I was as a young man. Newark? That may as well have been Baghdad the way I looked at it. Never mind that this little blonde woman had no problem living there.
The next sentence summarizes one of the greatest regrets of my life. I never called Margie. Of all the opportunities I’ve blown, it is near the top of the list, if not number one.
Would Margie have wanted to see me? Who knows – as any single who gets a phone number knows, by time you dial, someone’s mind could have changed. But meeting the first admitted female tickle freak of my life called for at least one phone call. Especially when you’re about as much a ladies’ man as the Pope, as I was.
The funny thing was, Margie’s cousin Sharon liked me. I liked Sharon as a friend, though, and never exploited the friendship as a way to get to Margie. Sharon and I lost touch not long after I finished school.
Margie, where are you today?
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