Three Tall Women; a play by Edward Albee.
Three Tall Ticklish Women, a memoir by Proust:
Part the First:
I’m unremarkable in looks and height, and straight but omnivorous where the appearance of tickle partners is concerned. However, I do require at least prettiness, if not beauty, and a reasonable figure in a girlfriend or playmate. This is actually far more moral and decent than it sounds.
Simply speaking, I want a level playing field. The more attractive a woman is, the less likely she is to do things she doesn’t like sexually in order to get and keep a man.
I would rather go without (and have I ever, on too many occasions!) rather than have a woman defer to my odd tastes because she feels it’s the only way to keep my attention, and that I’d not want her otherwise. Some early regrets at taking advantage of unattractive girls/women during my teens to mid-twenties affected my conscience, and thereafter I have tried to be decent.
Over more than five decades I’ve elicited laughter from women ranging in stature from 4’10” in heels to over 6’ barefoot.
But if the over six-footers were used to deference from society, however subtly expressed, they certainly weren’t used to begging for mercy through howls of helpless laughter.
In fact, on occasion this was a very pleasant situation to redress, so please allow an old man his damn’ fool ramblings…
The Midwestern United States is excruciatingly, bone-chillingly cold in winter, the houses blessedly warm inside to counter the -40 degree weather. It was December of 1988, and at least I was working, playing a trio of characters in a pretty big theatre’s production of Shakespeare’s Henry V, all very different, so backstage quickchanges required.
I don’t wish those on anybody. The worst of the three involved sauntering languidly offstage in character, then running as if I was trying to outrun the Fiends of Hell to the quickchange area and hurling myself into the arms of the dressers, in my case two girls who with military precision wrenched off my peasant costume, got me into armour and hauberk, buckled on my broadsword, pointed me in the right direction for my next very immediate entrance and gave me a shove.
One of them could shove very hard indeed. A Junoesque, strapping wench named ‘Olivia’, she had long thick bottle-blonde hair and stood six feet tall, proud possessor of a bosom resembling a dead heat in a Zeppelin race. As colleagues we were polite and businesslike with one another, and one night (Friday 13th, 1989) after the show she unselfishly offered to drive me back to my hotel on her way home because a blizzard was beginning to make life miserable- so miserable, in fact that visibility was practically nil, and when we reached the hotel her car got stuck in a snowbank.
I chivalrously suggested she share my room. Theatre companies are like lifeboats- unrelated strangers are thrown together and have to make the best of things. We showered separately, and I gave her a baggy T-shirt in which to sleep. But I did notice, since I’d allowed her to use the bathroom first, that she’d washed out her (rather insubstantial) black underwear and hung it up to dry on the towel rail. One obstruction less, I thought reflexively.
Exiting the bathroom, dressed in the hotel bathrobe I found her on the telephone (pre-mobile age) telling her roommate she wouldn’t be home but instead was crashing at a friend’s due to the storm. I happened to have purchased a bottle of brandy in case an opportunity such as this presented itself, and poured us each a half-toothglassful as a nightcap, to toast the storm and one another. She had very long legs and nice but not spectacular feet, whatever the latter means- perhaps you know what I mean…
And so to bed. She’d previously and very carefully solicited a promise that I’d be a gentleman, and I agreed. But listen closely, boys, because though I’ve been married three times I never had children. Therefore I have no sons to advise and you too may encounter something similar.
If she’d found me revolting she simply would have slept on the couch. A woman who shares a bed with you under similar circumstances (missed her last bus, car won’t start, too late for a long journey home, whatever) expects a gentlemanly and non-verbal pass to be made, (NOT a pounce) so that her self-image of complete and utter irresistibility can be confirmed.
She may be planning in advance to turn you down, and you’ll have to (and must) deal with that and accept defeat in a gentlemanly fashion, but I will tell you that the three times this happened to me before my Damascene Revelation, I carefully kept my promise, chivalrously stayed on my side of the bed and nobly did nothing.
Three girls in a row left without the offered breakfast, never spoke to me again and never returned my calls.
If any women are reading this and disagree out of pure ideology and female solidarity, please be quiet. You’ve never slept with a strictly heterosexual woman in your lives, and I have. Plenty of them. And since anthropologists are generally better qualified to comment on animal behavior than the animal itself, my oft-proven theory stands.
But I reiterate, gentlemen, BE DECENT ABOUT THIS!
Anyway…
‘May I please have a chaste goodnight kiss, Olivia?’, I asked politely while holding her and gently stroking her shoulder. She didn’t reply. ‘A hug, at least’, I continued, embracing her; she gave a vaguely disgusted snort and said, ‘All right, but nothing more.’ and lay on my chest, her face in the angle of my neck and shoulder. After a finely judged interval so she could involuntarily and unwittingly inhale me, I began gently stroking her hair, telling her it was lovely and thick.
She sighed languidly and settled into me, relaxing a bit, and I kissed her gently. Then I stopped, still with my arms around her and began running my nails along her upper arm, very gently and without doing anything more. I kissed her with a bit more ardour, then gently lessened the pressure until she took up the slack herself. Tongues began to entwine, and after a few minutes she murmured, ‘I’m your dresser. We shouldn’t be doing this’.
She was quite correct, of course.
And?...
Avoiding touching her bottom, which would have been overt, I kissed her for distraction, and simultaneously slipped a hand under the back of her/(my) t-shirt to stroke the base of her spine, just before it melted into her buttocks. Fingertips, then nails, very lightly. She murmured, her pelvis moved forward, and straddled the upper thigh I’d thoughtfully left waiting in position. Time to nibble her earlobe. She began to sigh, and move herself up and down the upper part of my leg. And her underwear was of course still safely drying in the bathroom.
Nails of my right hand into the underhang of her left buttock to make her gasp, withdraw chest for room to maneuver, thumb of left hand gently hooks hem of t-shirt, and in one movement lifts it chest high, then embrace harder while saying, ‘You have such beautiful breasts, and I’d love to feel them against me’.
Bare boobies against bare chest, dampening vulva slickening against my thigh, three fingers of one hand stroking the side of her breast, her nipple twiddled by the thumb and forefinger and the other set of nails stroking her bum. Sensory overload. Now, was that really so difficult, gentlemen?
Except I can’t even begin to tell you how much practice that took over the years, or how many women had stopped me at every point of this sort of thing before I finally started to get it right. Keep in mind that it doesn’t always work.
And now it was time to tickle her.
Because as a child, before I understood sex or had any idea what my little willy was for, I obsessed about tickling ribs, underarms and feet. I asked my female kindergarten classmates about it, I wanted to tickle my young blonde kindergarten teacher, experimented ‘accidentally’ on the little blonde girl who sat next to me in Year One, my red-haired next door neighbor who was a mysterious older woman of eight, and then came the realisation that society didn’t condone this sort of thing so I buried it out of sheer self-preservation.
But I never lost the urge, and when ‘they’ explained The Facts of Life at the dinner table when I was 11 (I’ve never looked at pork chops the same way since) I suddenly understood what I was supposed to want to do with Mary-Anne, my auburn-haired, ringletted Year Six tickle-crush, (not that she knew she was, or for that matter liked me in the least) instead of tickling her.
I privately acknowledged that half and half might be even more interesting. And so it transpired.
Back to Olivia. Continuing to kiss her, I let my fingertips flutter on her ribs, and she began to giggle. ‘I’m really ticklish’, she said. ‘Splendid’, I rejoined, tickling a bit more forcefully, and she began to laugh, saying, ‘No, really…’
-and at that point the thunderous naval bombardment increased, the bow ramps dropped simultaneously as the phalanx of landing craft hit the beach at Normandy, and the soldiers whooped as they charged ashore, guns blazing.
She was deliciously responsive. I nibbled her neck while flickering my fingers in her armpits, my thigh wedged between her parted thighs as the tickling caused her to writhe and spasm, involuntarily grinding her vulva onto my upper leg and stimulating herself automatically as her helpless laughter increased in pitch and volume. My fist gripped the back of her hair with carefully-judged romance novel ardour, pulling gently downward behind her back to lift her chin, then I kissed her mouth hard as my hand slipped south. She was dripping. Grasping her clitoris between thumb and forefinger, I rolled it gently as my middle finger entered to stroke her G-spot and (fortunately before carpal tunnel syndrome set in) she climaxed with a soft sob.
Women, I’ve found, are far more ticklish after orgasm. So while Olivia lay satisfyingly comatose, a visit to her unforgivably neglected feet was of course mandatory.
This is due to a delusion simultaneously realistic and far-fetched afflicting all unattached young men…
Sex will never occur again, ever.
Thus every magnificent, ‘somehow successful’ occasion must be exploited to the max. This is known as ‘Banking it’, which entails stocking up as many memories as possible to while away the amatory drought we all know will afflict us permanently and inevitably from now on.
I also knew that the urge to tickle her would dissipate if I came myself, so with an admonitionary glare at my dong, which was admonishing me back in rancidly sulphurous terms, I rolled downward.
Six foot girls inevitably have large feet. Olivia’s showed that she spent a lot of time on them- a bit of rough skin and chipped green nail polish, but what the hell. She’s had a shower, after all, so I smiled up at her and began sucking her toes. She began trembling, and started to groan, and her other foot began gently caressing the length of my cock, eventually pressing it against my stomach and rubbing with her sole. If this all sounds too perfect, she later explained that it was something she used to enjoy with an ex-boyfriend. Maybe she was trying a bit of banking herself. Anyway, she giggled and laughed in varying degrees as I licked and sucked, and finally I plunged into her, came too soon, but satisfied her with a long session of cunnilingus until she screamed and I thought I’d contract lockjaw. I’d carefully and without explanation put the end of the pillowcase over her vagina before concentrating solely on her clit so I’d not be gargling my own sperm- there are limits.
And we slept and woke and made love again.
I had her twice more before noon the following day, when the snow was finally cleared and she could go home. We maintained our usual polite distance that night at work so as to render the rumour mill gristless. But the ice had been broken nicely and we were very friendly after hours during the rest of the run.
Things carried on for a while when we could manage it after the show had ended and we’d returned to our respective cities. Then one day as we lay together afterwards she said, ‘I’m not sure about the tickling- it makes me feel like a little girl’, and there wasn’t much I could say to that. I think I last saw her in the early 90s, and I believe she married a set (that is, a stage) carpenter.
I hope they’re happy.
Parts Two and Three to follow.
Three Tall Ticklish Women, a memoir by Proust:
Part the First:
I’m unremarkable in looks and height, and straight but omnivorous where the appearance of tickle partners is concerned. However, I do require at least prettiness, if not beauty, and a reasonable figure in a girlfriend or playmate. This is actually far more moral and decent than it sounds.
Simply speaking, I want a level playing field. The more attractive a woman is, the less likely she is to do things she doesn’t like sexually in order to get and keep a man.
I would rather go without (and have I ever, on too many occasions!) rather than have a woman defer to my odd tastes because she feels it’s the only way to keep my attention, and that I’d not want her otherwise. Some early regrets at taking advantage of unattractive girls/women during my teens to mid-twenties affected my conscience, and thereafter I have tried to be decent.
Over more than five decades I’ve elicited laughter from women ranging in stature from 4’10” in heels to over 6’ barefoot.
But if the over six-footers were used to deference from society, however subtly expressed, they certainly weren’t used to begging for mercy through howls of helpless laughter.
In fact, on occasion this was a very pleasant situation to redress, so please allow an old man his damn’ fool ramblings…
The Midwestern United States is excruciatingly, bone-chillingly cold in winter, the houses blessedly warm inside to counter the -40 degree weather. It was December of 1988, and at least I was working, playing a trio of characters in a pretty big theatre’s production of Shakespeare’s Henry V, all very different, so backstage quickchanges required.
I don’t wish those on anybody. The worst of the three involved sauntering languidly offstage in character, then running as if I was trying to outrun the Fiends of Hell to the quickchange area and hurling myself into the arms of the dressers, in my case two girls who with military precision wrenched off my peasant costume, got me into armour and hauberk, buckled on my broadsword, pointed me in the right direction for my next very immediate entrance and gave me a shove.
One of them could shove very hard indeed. A Junoesque, strapping wench named ‘Olivia’, she had long thick bottle-blonde hair and stood six feet tall, proud possessor of a bosom resembling a dead heat in a Zeppelin race. As colleagues we were polite and businesslike with one another, and one night (Friday 13th, 1989) after the show she unselfishly offered to drive me back to my hotel on her way home because a blizzard was beginning to make life miserable- so miserable, in fact that visibility was practically nil, and when we reached the hotel her car got stuck in a snowbank.
I chivalrously suggested she share my room. Theatre companies are like lifeboats- unrelated strangers are thrown together and have to make the best of things. We showered separately, and I gave her a baggy T-shirt in which to sleep. But I did notice, since I’d allowed her to use the bathroom first, that she’d washed out her (rather insubstantial) black underwear and hung it up to dry on the towel rail. One obstruction less, I thought reflexively.
Exiting the bathroom, dressed in the hotel bathrobe I found her on the telephone (pre-mobile age) telling her roommate she wouldn’t be home but instead was crashing at a friend’s due to the storm. I happened to have purchased a bottle of brandy in case an opportunity such as this presented itself, and poured us each a half-toothglassful as a nightcap, to toast the storm and one another. She had very long legs and nice but not spectacular feet, whatever the latter means- perhaps you know what I mean…
And so to bed. She’d previously and very carefully solicited a promise that I’d be a gentleman, and I agreed. But listen closely, boys, because though I’ve been married three times I never had children. Therefore I have no sons to advise and you too may encounter something similar.
If she’d found me revolting she simply would have slept on the couch. A woman who shares a bed with you under similar circumstances (missed her last bus, car won’t start, too late for a long journey home, whatever) expects a gentlemanly and non-verbal pass to be made, (NOT a pounce) so that her self-image of complete and utter irresistibility can be confirmed.
She may be planning in advance to turn you down, and you’ll have to (and must) deal with that and accept defeat in a gentlemanly fashion, but I will tell you that the three times this happened to me before my Damascene Revelation, I carefully kept my promise, chivalrously stayed on my side of the bed and nobly did nothing.
Three girls in a row left without the offered breakfast, never spoke to me again and never returned my calls.
If any women are reading this and disagree out of pure ideology and female solidarity, please be quiet. You’ve never slept with a strictly heterosexual woman in your lives, and I have. Plenty of them. And since anthropologists are generally better qualified to comment on animal behavior than the animal itself, my oft-proven theory stands.
But I reiterate, gentlemen, BE DECENT ABOUT THIS!
Anyway…
‘May I please have a chaste goodnight kiss, Olivia?’, I asked politely while holding her and gently stroking her shoulder. She didn’t reply. ‘A hug, at least’, I continued, embracing her; she gave a vaguely disgusted snort and said, ‘All right, but nothing more.’ and lay on my chest, her face in the angle of my neck and shoulder. After a finely judged interval so she could involuntarily and unwittingly inhale me, I began gently stroking her hair, telling her it was lovely and thick.
She sighed languidly and settled into me, relaxing a bit, and I kissed her gently. Then I stopped, still with my arms around her and began running my nails along her upper arm, very gently and without doing anything more. I kissed her with a bit more ardour, then gently lessened the pressure until she took up the slack herself. Tongues began to entwine, and after a few minutes she murmured, ‘I’m your dresser. We shouldn’t be doing this’.
She was quite correct, of course.
And?...
Avoiding touching her bottom, which would have been overt, I kissed her for distraction, and simultaneously slipped a hand under the back of her/(my) t-shirt to stroke the base of her spine, just before it melted into her buttocks. Fingertips, then nails, very lightly. She murmured, her pelvis moved forward, and straddled the upper thigh I’d thoughtfully left waiting in position. Time to nibble her earlobe. She began to sigh, and move herself up and down the upper part of my leg. And her underwear was of course still safely drying in the bathroom.
Nails of my right hand into the underhang of her left buttock to make her gasp, withdraw chest for room to maneuver, thumb of left hand gently hooks hem of t-shirt, and in one movement lifts it chest high, then embrace harder while saying, ‘You have such beautiful breasts, and I’d love to feel them against me’.
Bare boobies against bare chest, dampening vulva slickening against my thigh, three fingers of one hand stroking the side of her breast, her nipple twiddled by the thumb and forefinger and the other set of nails stroking her bum. Sensory overload. Now, was that really so difficult, gentlemen?
Except I can’t even begin to tell you how much practice that took over the years, or how many women had stopped me at every point of this sort of thing before I finally started to get it right. Keep in mind that it doesn’t always work.
And now it was time to tickle her.
Because as a child, before I understood sex or had any idea what my little willy was for, I obsessed about tickling ribs, underarms and feet. I asked my female kindergarten classmates about it, I wanted to tickle my young blonde kindergarten teacher, experimented ‘accidentally’ on the little blonde girl who sat next to me in Year One, my red-haired next door neighbor who was a mysterious older woman of eight, and then came the realisation that society didn’t condone this sort of thing so I buried it out of sheer self-preservation.
But I never lost the urge, and when ‘they’ explained The Facts of Life at the dinner table when I was 11 (I’ve never looked at pork chops the same way since) I suddenly understood what I was supposed to want to do with Mary-Anne, my auburn-haired, ringletted Year Six tickle-crush, (not that she knew she was, or for that matter liked me in the least) instead of tickling her.
I privately acknowledged that half and half might be even more interesting. And so it transpired.
Back to Olivia. Continuing to kiss her, I let my fingertips flutter on her ribs, and she began to giggle. ‘I’m really ticklish’, she said. ‘Splendid’, I rejoined, tickling a bit more forcefully, and she began to laugh, saying, ‘No, really…’
-and at that point the thunderous naval bombardment increased, the bow ramps dropped simultaneously as the phalanx of landing craft hit the beach at Normandy, and the soldiers whooped as they charged ashore, guns blazing.
She was deliciously responsive. I nibbled her neck while flickering my fingers in her armpits, my thigh wedged between her parted thighs as the tickling caused her to writhe and spasm, involuntarily grinding her vulva onto my upper leg and stimulating herself automatically as her helpless laughter increased in pitch and volume. My fist gripped the back of her hair with carefully-judged romance novel ardour, pulling gently downward behind her back to lift her chin, then I kissed her mouth hard as my hand slipped south. She was dripping. Grasping her clitoris between thumb and forefinger, I rolled it gently as my middle finger entered to stroke her G-spot and (fortunately before carpal tunnel syndrome set in) she climaxed with a soft sob.
Women, I’ve found, are far more ticklish after orgasm. So while Olivia lay satisfyingly comatose, a visit to her unforgivably neglected feet was of course mandatory.
This is due to a delusion simultaneously realistic and far-fetched afflicting all unattached young men…
Sex will never occur again, ever.
Thus every magnificent, ‘somehow successful’ occasion must be exploited to the max. This is known as ‘Banking it’, which entails stocking up as many memories as possible to while away the amatory drought we all know will afflict us permanently and inevitably from now on.
I also knew that the urge to tickle her would dissipate if I came myself, so with an admonitionary glare at my dong, which was admonishing me back in rancidly sulphurous terms, I rolled downward.
Six foot girls inevitably have large feet. Olivia’s showed that she spent a lot of time on them- a bit of rough skin and chipped green nail polish, but what the hell. She’s had a shower, after all, so I smiled up at her and began sucking her toes. She began trembling, and started to groan, and her other foot began gently caressing the length of my cock, eventually pressing it against my stomach and rubbing with her sole. If this all sounds too perfect, she later explained that it was something she used to enjoy with an ex-boyfriend. Maybe she was trying a bit of banking herself. Anyway, she giggled and laughed in varying degrees as I licked and sucked, and finally I plunged into her, came too soon, but satisfied her with a long session of cunnilingus until she screamed and I thought I’d contract lockjaw. I’d carefully and without explanation put the end of the pillowcase over her vagina before concentrating solely on her clit so I’d not be gargling my own sperm- there are limits.
And we slept and woke and made love again.
I had her twice more before noon the following day, when the snow was finally cleared and she could go home. We maintained our usual polite distance that night at work so as to render the rumour mill gristless. But the ice had been broken nicely and we were very friendly after hours during the rest of the run.
Things carried on for a while when we could manage it after the show had ended and we’d returned to our respective cities. Then one day as we lay together afterwards she said, ‘I’m not sure about the tickling- it makes me feel like a little girl’, and there wasn’t much I could say to that. I think I last saw her in the early 90s, and I believe she married a set (that is, a stage) carpenter.
I hope they’re happy.
Parts Two and Three to follow.
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That worked out fabulously for you both. 
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
