OldEnglish
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2001
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Howdy all. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. Err, let me rephrase that.. It’s been a while since I’ve written AND FINISHED anything. I’ve got some pieces started - some more than halfway complete - but lack the creative juices to complete them at the moment. This is something new that I started. Admittedly, I’ve written a few pieces that have a similar theme to this one, and yes this first episode will have a lot of similarities to some of my other pieces, but the key difference here is the plan. As long as time permits, I have planned out a number of episodes in this tale and have even drafted out opportunities to tie many of my series (Katy & Amber, KeriAnn) with this one to start blending all characters together. Well, at least in the same universe… Of course, time will dictate all of that, but I can at least say there’s a plan in place.
With that said, enjoy. As always, comment and feedback is welcome.
"The Story of a Girl: Episode 1"
Oh, hey there. Welcome to the world inside my head, where all my thoughts and dreams and aspirations reside. My name is Jess. Well, I’d like you to know my name as Jess. I guess my actual birth name was something different. Then again, a lot about me was different at birth. A lot about me was different even last week. Oh yeah - this is written word and not motion picture, so you can’t see what I’m talking about. Allow me a moment to explain.
You see, I was born a man and lived my life as a man throughout my entire thirty-(mumble mumble mumble) years on this planet. What? A girl never reveals her true age. Oh, you caught that last bit, huh? Where I called myself a girl. That’s where things get trickier in my timeline. As I said, I was born as a man, and though I’d like to think I made the best of the situation, I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a significant portion of me that felt I would have made a much better woman than a man.
Now I know what some of you are probably thinking, since I hear it all the time: Jess, this is probably just some weird fascination with wanting to wear heels instead of men’s clothing. OK, while I do admit the heels are a perk I enjoy, it’s much more than that. It’s my persona. It’s my identity. It’s who I feel comfortable being. So yes, while I do enjoy the heels whenever I can, it’s not just some little fantasy world I am trying to live in when I can.
I said “when I can” because this has been a part of my life that I have completely hidden from the rest of the world. A dark secret, one that I grew up relatively ashamed of - always feeling like something was wrong with me. The world knew me as a man and that was it. And yes, I may have been the butt of many jokes because of my life interests - especially in my high school and college days - those were just jokes to the tellers; they had no idea the level of truth that each comment contained. As a result, this was a side of me that I hid from the world and kept only to myself.
Until now.
Her name is Rachel. She’s a co-worker at work. I know what you’re thinking and the answer is “nothing more than that”. Still, though, in just a short time, I felt I had made a connection with her, one that I hadn’t necessarily made with anyone else that I had known to this point. We had quickly become friends - work friends at first, as she showed me the ropes of the new job, and then coffee friends, even though we were always seemingly at odds of where to go ou caffeine kick, and then lunch friends from there, as she showed me where the best place to get buffalo mac and cheese was. She had an inviting aura about her, which I found almost ironic given her usual demeanor. Not to say that she was sheltered or prudish or anything of the like, but I had always known those with such inviting auras about them to be more like free spirits in the wind, frolicking with whatever life happened to blow in their general direction.
Rachel wasn’t necessarily like that. Rachel seemed like a planner. Like an analyzer. Like someone who studied a situation and put thought into all possible outcomes before acting. And then, yes, if all of the calculations in her mind had come out favorably, then yes, you were allowed into that inner circle of hers. It was why, when mentioning that she was helping me learn the ropes of the company, I was greeted with maybe 70% “Oh she’s so nice” and 30% “Good luck with that” from people. Clearly those 30% hadn’t come out favorably in Rachel’s mental equations; having gotten to know them more the longer I worked at the company, the more I agreed with Rachel.
And, thus, one day as we shared a coffee at the local boutique coffee shop - her choice - Rachel commented on the shoes worn by another patron of the establishment - no one that we knew. I had apparently too eagerly offered an opinion - an opinion also seemingly too intelligent for someone who was not to have any background on the subject - and thus the seeds of a conversation I never intended to have were planted. How did I know so much about shoes? Had I worked in women’s shoes before? What else did I know about women’s shoes and how to pair them with outfits?
The questions came so quickly, and my usual fortress of solitude walls were so unguarded with her, that I just blurted it out without even thinking. Of course, I instantly regretted it - if I recall, I even dramatically put my hands over my mouth out of amazement at what I had said. I figured it was over. I figured I would have lost a friend. I figured I would need to find a new job. I even figured I should probably look out of state.
But no... Instead I got a huge smile and an understanding friend. I did get a million questions, but not of the judgmental kind - of the curious kind. And most amazingly of all, I got an invitation. An invitation for a “Girl Night In”, a night that I had dreamt of having for as long as I could remember but never even fathomed it would be a possibility.
So that’s all to say how I found myself staring at the woman looking back at me in the mirror, knowing that, for the first time, there was someone on the other side of my bedroom door who would be seeing Jess when I walked out of the security of my bedroom. Butterflies flew about in my stomach as I wondered if I had made a grave mistake. Every possible “worst outcome imaginable” played through in my mind, each one more ridiculous in nature than the previous, but each one serving to intensify the flight of the butterflies. As I pondered the possibility that the exterior walls of my house would crumble down the second I walked into the living room, leaving me as Jess on full display to the entire neighborhood, I realized how ridiculous I was being.
‘Damn, girl, you look good,’ I said to myself as I gave myself a once-over with a renewed mindset. Indeed, I had been contemplating this outfit since Rachel first suggested this evening. My debut outfit, if you will. It was simple, yet sophisticated. Comfortable, yet classy. Suitable for a quiet girls night in, yet also fashionable enough to show I had put thought into my outfit.
It was a pair of skinny blue jeans that contoured to my legs just enough to work and yet not too much to be inappropriate. Above that I had gone for the layered look, one of my trademarks. I had a black shapewear camisole that I had tucked into my jeans, and above that, a white tank top - itself having a little elasticity to it so that it clung to my sides. Since it was December, above that, I wore an open cardigan sweater - red in color, for the holiday - that was extra long in the back. My hair sat on my shoulders, combed and neat but not defined by any particular style at the moment. The outfit was completed by my most recent indulgence for myself - a pair of thigh-high boots, taupe in color, that added an extra three inches to my stature by way of their heels. I admittedly did not need the extra inches in any way, already having a man’s stature, but I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to wear heels. I knew most people didn’t have the time of day for someone like me, but I felt pretty confident that I would at least give myself a second glance if I had seen myself walking down the street.
“Are we doing this or what?” Rachel shouted from the living room, no doubt wondering where I was and whether I had developed cold feet.
‘Now or never,’ I said to myself, as I turned away from the mirror and made my way to the door. I paused for a moment before turning the knob, realizing the enormity of what was happening - once I walked out of this room, someone in the real world would have seen me for the first time, and there was no coming back from that. Reminding myself that this was Rachel’s idea, I twisted the knob and began walking down the hallway towards the living room.
“Do I hear heels?” Rachel asked as the click-clock of my heels against the hardwood flooring resonated down the hallway into the living room. I felt myself turning a brighter shade of red as I neared the entry into the living room.
“Oh my gosh,” Rachel said, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth as she began laughing as I made my entrance. Laughter wasn’t what I was hoping for - I wasn’t sure WHAT I was hoping for - but I could tell this laughter was more “HGTV home reveal” laughter than derogatory laughter. “You look AMAZING,” Rachel said, darting her hands in front of her now for emphasis.
“Knock it off,” I said, fearing her reaction was a little over-the-top.
“No, I mean it,” she said, still taking in the whole aura that was my presence. “I mean, I’ll be honest - I wasn’t sure what to expect and was kind of bracing for the worst,” she said with renewed laughter. “But no,” she continued, pausing for a moment. “Honestly, if I didn’t know this was you, I’dve just thought it was another new girl in the office,” she said.
“Awww,” I said, bringing my hands to my heart to show my gratitude, all those ridiculous scenarios that had been running through my head a short while ago now a distant memory. “Thanks so much,” I said.
“I am really impressed with this side of you, Jess,” she said with a smile.
“Aww, you called me Jess,” I said.
“Well, that’s your name,” she said rather matter-of-factly.
“No, no, I know,” I said, stammering a bit to find my words. “I just didn’t expect…” I said, tailing off.
“Well, don’t expect,” Rachel said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Just be,” she said. “Now come on,” she said, her tone changing to a more jovial one. “You promised me cookies,” she said with a laugh.
And thus it was that we enjoyed the afternoon together, listening to Christmas carols and baking Christmas cookies while complaining about office co-workers and… and just being friends. Being care-free. Being natural.
As the last batch of cookies went into the oven, Rachel and I plopped down onto the couch, still within earshot of the oven time while allowing ourselves a moment of rest. I crossed my legs as I fell back into the cushions of the couch, releasing a heavy sigh as I did.
Looking back, as I am doing now, I of course see the err of my ways and kick myself for allowing the events to play out as they did. At the time, of course, something like this was the absolute last thing on my mind; never in a million years would I have thought to put that on my Bingo card of things that were going to happen that night
It started out innocent enough…
“I’ve got to hand it to you for going with the heels all day long,” Rachel said as we sat on the couch.
“I mean, I kind of had to, right?” I asked metaphorically, lifting up my leg to show off my heels a bit. “What’s a girls night if you’re not going to wear heels?” I asked with a laugh.
“Oh, you’ll be singing a different tune soon, I’m sure,” laughed Rachel. “Though it’s been, what, about five hours or so, so far?” she asked, looking at her watch to see how much time had passed. “Oh my gosh, it’s been closer to six!” she said in astonishment.
“Time sure flies when you’re having fun,” I said, amazed, myself, that what had seemed like only an hour or so had actually been the better portion of the afternoon. “Makes sense, though,” I continued. “The sun was up when we started and now it’s pitch black outside,” I said, referencing the disappointing early sunsets of the winter months.
“I won’t lie,” Rachel said. “I had you kicking those heels off after an hour, tops,” she said.
“No way,” I said in faux-disbelief. “I wear heels often, actually,” I continued, “though I admittedly don’t do as much walking around in them as we did today,” I added. “I can see why foot massages are such a big thing for women now,” I said.
“Girl, you have not lived until you’ve had a foot massage after a day in heels,” Rachel said with wisdom. “Here,” she motioned, patting her lap with her hands. “Plop them up here,” she offered.
“Oh, no,” I said. “You don’t have to do that,” I said in mock-protest, though my entire being was hoping Rachel would insist to the point where I couldn’t refuse. Listen, I love these boots, and I’d wear them again in a heartbeat, but a foot massage right about this time sounded heavenly.
“Put them up here,” Rachel insisted with a more emphatic patting of her lap. “Girls do for each other like this,” said. “Besides, now you’ll owe me,” she said.
“I mean, if you’re sure you’re OK with it,” I said, bending down to undo the zipper along the inside of each boot before pulling each one off with a yank. Honestly, just pulling the boots off at this point offered relief that I didn’t even know I was seeking. I shifted in my seat on the couch so I was now facing Rachel and swung my legs up on her lap, ready for my massage.
“Oh,” Rachel said with slight hesitation as my legs landed on her lap. “You’re wearing nylons?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, not knowing if I had committed a feminine faux-pas so soon into my tenure. “Is that OK?” I asked, beginning to pull my legs back.
“Yeah, of course” Rachel said, her tone changed from before. “I just wasn’t expecting it, is all. You really went the full girl route tonight, huh?” she asked. “Impressive.”
“Well” I said, feeling as if I had to justify my outfit selection to Rachel. “It just makes everything more comfortable," I said. “Plus, this apartment can be an ice box at times,” I said, trying to rattle off as many reasons as I could.
“You don’t have to explain,” Rachel said. “I’ve worn nylons under jeans countless times, too. I just wasn’t expecting it, is all. It’s impressive that you went all out,” she complimented.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling a bit more relaxed.
“A full day walking in heels and making it through the day without putting a run in your nylons,” Rachel remarked. “Impressive,” she said, nodding her head in approval.
“I’ve had practice,” I said with a laugh.
Rachel lifted up my foot and began to work her magic. Oh my gosh… She was right. There is no greater joy than having your feet rubbed after you’ve been walking in heels all day. I get it now. I really do. I allowed myself to fall even deeper into the cushions of the couch as my body absorbed all of the comfort that Rachel’s hands were doling out.
“Feel good?” Rachel asked, finding it humorous that I had been so easily swayed.
“Oh my word,” I said, not even needing to answer. “This is bliss,” I said, a smile covering my face. “And you said you’d do this for me every time I wear heels?” I asked, sort of stretching her words a bit.
Rachel tilted her head a bit to me recognizing what I was trying to do. “Hey, if you keep making me these delicious cookies, you might have a deal,” she said with a laugh.
She continued kneading the bottom of my foot, massaging away every ache and discomfort as she did, sending me further and further into a relaxed state. Everything was peaceful. Everything was serene. Everything was bliss.
Until it wasn’t.
I don’t even think that she did it on purpose. I think it was genuinely accidental. At least her reaction to it all suggested so. And again, looking back, knowing what I know, I should have realized it was inevitable, bound to happen.
As Rachel was focusing on the ball of my foot, near my toes, the tip of one of her fingernails from another finger brushed up against the arch of my foot, causing me to shoot up with a shriek and recoil my leg with lightning-like speed.
For a moment, we both sat there, staring at each other, each of us taking in what had just occurred. I sat there not knowing what to do. Do I acknowledge what had just happened? Do we play it off like nothing happened? I wanted so much to control the narrative of this incident but I just sat there, frozen.
“What was that?” Rachel asked initially, her hands still mid-air where my foot used to be.
“Oh,” I said, stammering, not sure what to say. Knowing that I needed to say something, but wanting to say literally anything EXCEPT for what it actually was. “Ahm, it was nothing,” I said, clearly lying through my teeth.
“Nothing,” she said, though I could see the wheels turning in her mind as she processed what had just happened. A sly smile crossed her face that she couldn’t even hide. “Are you,” she began, pausing as I believe she couldn’t believe she was about to ask this of a work colleague. “Are you ticklish?” she asked, only somewhat able to hide the schoolgirl glee she had in asking the question.
“No,” I said, way too quickly and way too unconvincingly. “No,” I repeated. “I just got startled, I think,” I said, realizing that what I had just said didn’t even make sense.
Yes. Yes, of course I was ticklish. Ticklish doesn’t even begin to describe it. Choose your adjective. Wicked ticklish. Outrageously ticklish. Absurdly ticklish. Insanely ticklish. Deathly ticklish. I’ve been called them all before, and they’re not wrong. And my feet. My feet are just a collection of nerve endings all bundled together in one spot so sensitive that even walking barefoot in the grass used to tickle.
I just couldn't believe that I was STILL ticklish. And certainly that I was still THAT ticklish. Truthfully, it was just the brushing of a fingernail against the arch of my foot, but if I could have jumped though the roof, I would have.
Nothing was peaceful. Nothing was serene. Nothing was blissful.
“Oh,” Rachel said, responding to my obvious lie. “Well, if you’re not ticklish,” she said, and began patting her lap again.
What could I do? I had painted myself into a corner. I said I wasn’t ticklish, so there was literally no reason for me not to comply with her request. And yet it was painfully obvious to everyone in the room that I was indeed ticklish and now I was faced with the prospect of putting my feet back into the arms of the one who had just found out I was ticklish. There was nothing else that I could do. Cautiously, I placed my feet back on Rachel’s lap
Instinctively, I flinched when Rachel picked up my foot again. Nowhere neat to the level that I had recoiled a moment ago, for sure, but it was definitely noticeable. My body had just assumed a ticklish touch. Rachel began her massage again, picking up on the balls of my foot where she had left off. I tried to get as comfortable as I could, though any sense of relaxation was long out the window at this point.
Now, it was about survival.
“You know,” Rachel said, looking over my foot down to me as she continued her massage. “It’s a good thing you’re not ticklish,” she said, lowering the focus area of her massage from the ball of my foot into the top portion of my arch now. Danger zone. “I have a friend who has wicked ticklish feet,” Rachel said, “and she can barely sit still during a foot massage,” she said, staring at me for a reaction
“Yeah,” I said, looking for any possible way to change the subject yet knowing that that was the absolute last thing that Rachel would allow. I could feel Rachel lightening her touch almost imperceptibly, the once firm grip now a somewhat softer hold and she allowed her thumb to move ever so slightly, no more than a few millimeters from its original.
But a soft enough touch and a long enough move for my foot to once again betray me.
Instinctively, my foot curled ever so slightly, as if trying to distance itself from that tortuous touch that was residing on its arch. Honestly, had I not had the incident where I recoiled like a spring a moment ago, this foot curl might have been small enough that Rachel may not have noticed. But there was no way she missed it. Where the initial incident may have been accidental, this reeked of cold-hearted calculation. If there were any doubt, the small smile that spread across Rachel’s face gave her away.
I wondered for a moment what Rachel was thinking. She had clearly just stumbled onto something accidentally, and it was a “something” that she seemingly wasn’t going to let go of. She clearly knew. She had to. She tightened her grip on my feet and continued her massage.
“I would always tell her,” Rachel continued on about her friend, “that she was just as ticklish as a little kid,” Rachel said with a smirk. “I mean, imagine being so ticklish that you can’t sit still during a foot massage,” she said, her words feeling very weighty as they hung in the air.
“Mmmm,” I mumbled, not daring to even open my mouth out of fear that a giggle or two might accidentally escape. Rachel had zoned in on my arch as a particular area of weakness and she wasn’t letting up. My toes curled and my calf muscles spasmed as Rachel delicately dragged her thumb along the curve of my arch. Whereas initially Rachel likely wasn’t even trying to tickle, each successive touch now registered more as a tickle than the last, and if this pattern continued, I was doomed.
I cursed myself as Rachel’s words echoed in my ear. How could I still be so ticklish? I mean, it wasn’t a complete and total surprise. As I said, I had always been unfathomably ticklish. I remember with clarity the look of pure joy as many of my ex-girlfriends in college had discovered that I was more ticklish than they were. As they realized the power that they now possessed. It was a look quite similar to what I was seeing in Rachel’s eyes right now. But that was years ago. I hadn’t been tickled in so long. I guess part of me assumed that I wasn’t ticklish anymore? Or at the very least, not as helplessly ticklish as I used to be?
“Still relaxed down there?” she asked, taking an inventory of how I was handling the situation.
“Mmmm, yes,” I said, feeling that I needed to actually mouth words to be even the least bit believable, though I was about as far from relaxed as one could get as I battled this tight-rope walk of maintaining composure.
“Though I suppose if you’re not ticklish, you don’t know what that’s like,” Rachel said, clearly not letting the topic die. Every time she even mentioned the word ‘ticklish’ I seemed to flinch a bit at this point, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Rachel.
“Yeah,” I said, reduced solely to monosyllabic words at this point as I focused the majority of my energy into blocking out the ticklish sensations that were growing on the bottom of my foot.
And yet Rachel refused to leave that arch. She had identified it as the main area of weakness and targeted it over the… oh my word, how had it only been fifteen seconds??!!! She knew that with a continued focus on my arch, my body would eventually betray me. She knew I was toast.
And then, just like that, it was over. She still held my foot in her hand, but her thumb had left my arch, her entire hand no longer making contact with any portion of the bottom of my foot. Had I done it? Had I survived? Had I made it through without having to confront the obvious?
“Feel better?” she asked.
“Much,” I said, breathing a deep internal sigh of relief. “That was amazing,” I said, trying to play off any struggle that I may or may not have endured.
I had done it. Or so I thought…
“Oh,” Rachel said, her face showing some concern. “You’ve just got a little something,” she said, as she studied the bottom of my foot
And then she did it.
While pretending to dust something off the bottom of my foot, Rachel extended all four fingers and dragged the tips of them from the ball of my foot, down the arch, and onto the heel.
Or at least the heel was the intended target, I’m sure. I say that because they never had the opportunity to land there. As soon as my mind registered four fingers tracing down the bottom of my foot, my leg recoiled as quickly as it could, pulling its appendage to safety immediately as I let out an audible shriek.
There was no denying it now. There was no doubt what Rachel had tried to do. There was no doubt how I had reacted to it. It was pointless for either of us to pretend we didn’t know what had happened
And yet I persisted…
“You are SO ticklish,” Rachel said with a laugh, looking at me as I sat frozen, trying to contemplate my next move.
“No,” I said, still unable to state the obvious. I searched for an excuse for my action but Rachel didn’t give me any time.
“Oh, really?” she asked, lunging to get a hold of my ankle again.
“NO!” I shrieked, jumping back as far as I could on the couch and swinging my legs so both of my feet were now under my body and away from Rachel.
“What’s wrong, Miss I’m Not Ticklish?” Rachel asked with a laugh as she tried to coax one of my feet out of its hiding spot.
“OK, OK, I’m ticklish,” I finally admitted, the defeat in my voice sounding clear as day. “But you were messing with my feet,” I said, trying to defend myself in any way I could think.
“I had no idea you were this ticklish,” Rachel said, ignoring my defense.
“It’s not that bad,” I said, trying to save face. “You said yourself you had a friend who can’t sit still during foot massages,” I said, hoping to put the ticklish tag on someone else for the time being.
“Yeah, and you are way more ticklish than she is, “Rachel said with glee, sticking her tongue out at me as she made her statement.
“Am not,” I said, protesting, though I didn’t even know who she was referring to.
As I denied her claim, Rachel shot her hands at me, as if she were planning another tickle attack. Naturally, I jumped, flinching to get out of the way of any potential attack. I admit - it wasn’t a good look for me.
“See?’ Rachel said. “I don’t even have to touch you,” she said with another laugh. “All this time you were hiding this weakness from me,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s not a weakness,” I said, defiantly. “Listen, let’s just relax here and go back to watching TV while we wait for the cookies to finish baking,” I said, hoping to lure her back into a sense of normalcy with the thought of cookies.
“OK,” she said, going along with my plan - or so I thought. “You just bring your legs back out from hiding and we can all go back to the way things were,” she said, daring me to danger.
“No,” I said, sensing her next move. “I’m comfortable the way I am,” I continued, trying to convince myself of that..
OK,” she said with a smile, staring at me to make me question what she had planned. I was so focused on her efforts to get me to reveal my feet again that I hadn’t considered an alternate attack, though that was exactly what Rachel had in mind.
Target: my sides.
She darted her hands towards both sides, missing with her right hand but latching on with her left hand. One of my love handles proved far too easy for her to clamp onto, pinching and twisting and scratching her fingers through the material as it clung to my side. I jumped back to get away from the attack, but the arm of the couch caught me, trapping me
“Rachel, no!” I squealed, trying to twist and turn to somehow unlatch her hand from my side. Her claw-like grip would have impressed Baron von Rachke himself, and she continued to navigate her hand around my sensitive side. Laughter flowed freely and easily from my mouth as I tried to save myself. I grabbed onto her wrist, trying to pull her hand away, but not only was she surprisingly strong, I was also being weakened by the second by the laughter escaping my mouth
“No, stop!” I begged through the laughter. I could feel each movement as her fingers continued squeezing my side. The elasticity of the top I had on only served to cling the material close to my sides, thus eliminating any possibility of a large clump of clothing material impeding her ability to tickle my side.
“Let me guess,” Rachel said, clearly enjoying her current lot in life. “Are your sides not ticklish, either?” she asked rhetorically, sensing I was far too lost to laughter to be able to respond to her question. I was in a bad spot, trapped against the arm of the couch with nowhere to go, with only T-Rex arms to try to fight her off, lest I risk exposing any other part of my sides to her tickle attack.
But I was about to enter into a much worse spot.
Needing anything to escape her tickling fingers, I slouched down a bit on the couch, hoping that the lower angle of my side would require her to lose her grip on my love handle. For a brief moment, I had won, as that was indeed the exact result of my action. Yes, Rachel still technically sat over me, but at the very least, for a brief moment, I could breathe again.
What I hadn’t considered in my move, though, was that scootching down a bit more on the couch had also caused my leg to pop out from its previous hiding spot of being under my body - my body having long ago lost the ability to maintain such a position without irreversible consequences.
Rachel’s eyes made it very clear that she was well aware that my leg had escaped its hiding spot and before I had a chance to even resist, she had jumped from her current position to the other side of the couch, landing her body weight directly across my shin and trapping my foot to the couch.
“No! Not my feet!” I begged - foolishly - as she had already triumphed in trapping my foot in place. I tried pulling my leg from her grip, to no avail.
“Oh, so the feet ARE the weak spot,” Rachel asked, as if she has been studying my every vulnerability since this entire process began.
“Yes! No!” I shouted, honestly, too beside myself at this point to even think about what to say. “How are you so strong?” I asked as I continued trying to pull her leg from her grip futilely.
“Lots of gym days,” she said. “Got it!” she shouted triumphantly, as she secured my ankle in a headlock under her arm, leaving the bottom of my foot prone and vulnerable to her whim and fancy.
“Rachel, no,” I begged, trying to sit up to get closer to her to plead my case. “Please, don’t,” I continued, pathetically. “Please just don-” but the words were cut off by a torrent of laughter, as Rachel had begun her assault.
She hadn’t begun it with a teasing test or a simple finger going down the bottom of my foot. No. She started out with a full-on assault, dancing all four of her fingers across my exposed arch, sending me into an instant fit of hysterical laughter.
I feel backwards on the couch, laughing uncontrollably, trying to grab any throw pillow or anything I could muster at her to try to get her to stop. My eyes pressed shut as I was enveloped in the laughter, unable to even form the words to beg for mercy that wasn’t coming. I started furiously tapping out on the couch cushions, hoping she’d recognize that as a symbol of admitting defeat.
And yet she continued.
She was good. She was damn good. Her earlier detective work had laid out a ground plan of sensitive areas for her, and she hadn’t forgotten about them. She first targeted the arch, recognizing that as my weak spot earlier. She didn’t stay in one spot for long, though, never allowing me even a moment of relief as I may have become used to a particular feeling. She danced from my arch to my heel to the ball of my foot to my toes; she even assaulted the top of my foot
She varied her technique, alternating between straight up tickles to one that focused more on dragging her nails across my foot to one that focused on drawing circles in a particular area. When she saw that I was trying to squeeze my foot down to produce some wrinkles that may interrupt her flow of tickling, she grasped at my toes, pulling them back and ensuring that the bottom of my foot remained taut and free of impediment to her tickles. .
This wasn’t a tickle fight. This was a tickle massacre. This was someone who was very skilled at tickling - an expert, perhaps - against someone who was clearly still incredibly ticklish - even at my age now. This was one person identifying another person’s most ticklish spot and exploiting that area to her own fancy. This was that one person’s most ticklish spot being completely open and vulnerable to that expert tickler.
“Rachel, please!” I shouted, surprising even myself that I was able to form words at this point.
“How are you even this ticklish?” she asked amidst her own laughter. I struggled to breathe and fell into that silent laughter phase - where you’re laughing so much but no noise is even coming out of your mouth. I knew this stage well from my past. I slammed my hand even more against the couch cushions, hoping that with the lack of laughter noise Rachel would recognize that I was giving up. Nothing.
“I honestly had no idea you were this ticklish,” Rachel said, continuing to analyze the situation as she tickled away. Every time she even said the word ticklish it felt like I was somehow becoming even more ticklish right in front of her.
Her fingers danced across the bottom of my foot as if they were ballerinas dancing to the Nutcracker and my foot their stage - their prone, vulnerable stage. The nylons did absolutely nothing to protect against the ticklish touches - if anything, if it were even possible, they were likely making the entire ordeal even worse.
I cursed myself for landing in this position. Just a short while ago, I was safe, my feet protected by the boots that I had been wearing all day. Sure, my feet were aching at this point, but at least they were safe. My secret was still hidden. My weakness not yet revealed. Now, within five minutes of removing my boots, my entire world had changed; Rachel had discovered how ticklish I was and had proven to be more than happy to take advantage of the situation.
“You have to stop,” I begged, feeling I was bordering on sanity and insanity at this moment, unable to do anything but laugh at this point. I was too weak to even put up much of a struggle anymore.
“You’re getting the true girl experience,” Rachel said, as if suggesting I had requested this.
“Please, I’ll do anything,” I begged, at this point not even fully sure of the words that were coming out of my mouth.
“Anything?” asked Rachel, clearly intrigued by the idea I had proposed.
I shook my head emphatically up and down, half-knowing the dangerous road I was going down but also recognizing that few things would be worse than what I was currently enduring. And more than anything, I needed this tickling to stop.
“That report is due to the Thomasson client on Monday morning,” Rachel said out loud, her words hanging in the air for a moment as she seemingly thought this through herself. “I wonder if there’s any way you could be talked into doing it for me,” she said with hesitation, as if testing the limits of this new, bold strategy.
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” I screamed, hoping that this was the key that would open the lock to end the constant tickling. The Thomasson report was a pain in the butt, and the Thomasson clients even moreso. It’s not that the report was difficult; it was just arduous, and the Thomasson clients picked it apart with a fine-toothed comb. If even so much as the font size was .5 larger than expected, there’d be emails sent to everyone up the chain, and you’d be in for an entire afternoon of visits by your desk from those folks reminding you how to format the report. As hellacious as that all sounded, it seemed like a walk in the park compared to my current plight.
“Really?” Rachel asked, seemingly stunned enough by my willingness to do the Thomasson report that she almost - almost - stopped tickling for a moment. “You’ll do the Thomasson report? Just because I’m tickling you?” she asked, seeking confirmation.
“It tickles SO much!” I screamed, trying to explain to her my willingness to accept the Thomasson report. Of course, I instantly regretted my choice of words and wished I could undo them, for they only served to fuel the fire within Rachel, as she became even more aware of the true power that she held in her menacing fingertips.
“Really?” she asked, now increasing her tickling efforts as she contemplated what else she could ask for. “I don’t suppose you’d bring me in a coffee Monday morning, would you?” she asked.
“YES!” I screamed, as with each passing second I moved closer and closer to agreeing to felonies and misdemeanors if it would end the tickling.
“I’m not talking chain coffee,” she said. “I want true coffee house coffee. You know the kind I like,” she said.
“ANYTHING!” I begged. “Please stop tickling,” I gasped, falling back in the trap of silent laughter. I was breaking. It hadn’t even been a full minute yet and I was breaking. Rachel had identified the most ticklish spot on my body and had targeted it - unrelentingly so - and doing so had brought me to the brink.
“Does it really tickle that much?” Rachel asked, pausing for a moment and, maybe perhaps, just showing the slightest bit of compassion for the torture that she had just put me through.
“Yes,” I said with a cough, as I struggled to catch my breath again.
Rachel sat there for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to do next. On one hand, she had a look of almost-sympathy on her face, as if she was only just now fully processing just how much torture she had put me through with her tickling. On the other hand, she still had an iron-clad lock on my ankle, making sure my foot remained trapped if she decided to continue with her tickling exploits.
“Just how ticklish ARE you?” she asked, almost bewilderedly, as if the events of the last - how long had it been? - weren’t enough evidence to answer that question.
“Pretty ticklish,” I said, not sure of the best way to answer that question. I mean, obviously there was no sense in denying it at this point. But I feared a response that either spoke too low or too high of my ticklishness would prompt additional tickling. I needed to be right in the middle.
“You’re serious?” Rachel asked, though I remained flabbergasted as to how she could still not understand it. For emphasis, she drew one single line down the bottom of my still-trapped foot with the tip of her nai.
“Eeek!” I shrieked and tried to pull away, though to no avail. “Yes, I’m serious,” I retorted.
“And you’re really going to do the Thomasson report AND bring me coffee on Monday?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said, as I again tried to pull my trapped ankle free from Rachel’s death grip.
“And just to be clear,” Rachel said, “you’re only doing that because I was tickling you?” she asked, continuing to replay the events back.
“Yes,” I said, admittedly rather annoyedly as I felt all these answers were fairly self-evident. “Why do you keep asking?” I asked, finally.
“I’m just having a hard time processing how you can be so ticklish,” Rachel said in a smart-alec manner, again dragging a finger down the bottom of my foot for emphasis.
Once again, I jumped. “Well, I am,” I said. “Clearly,” I added, for my own emphasis.
“Yes, you are,” Rachel said with a laugh, skittering her fingers along my arch one more time.
“Rachel!” I squealed through the laughter.
“I can’t help it,” Rachel said, somewhat apologetically, as if she actually, truly could not help it. “I had no idea you were this ticklish…” she said, dragging another finger down my foot.
“Ah!” I squeaked, still unable to muster any defense against her attacks. “Well, now you know,” I said, hoping that that put an end to it.
“Yes, now I do know,” she said, the hint of evil, even in its playful form, gleaming in her eye.
We stared at each other momentarily as the weight of what had just happened truly landed on our shoulders. She knew. Two words that would change the framework, the structure of our friendship going forward. Rachel knew. She knew I was ticklish. She knew how ticklish I was. She knew where I was most ticklish. She knew the easiest way to tickle me. And she knew exactly how she could benefit from this knowledge. She knew. And there was no going back.
“Can I have my foot back?” I finally asked, wanting some sense of safety from any further attack.
Rachel let go quickly and I recoiled my foot just as quickly, tucking it once again under my body where it would remain, hopefully, safe from further attacks - though much good it did me before.
“Are you mad?” Rachel asked, her voice inflecting to a great degree and her eyebrows arched as to express hopefulness that I wasn’t mad at her.
I looked at her plainly, at first, hoping to trick her for a moment, but my poker face showed too quickly, and I was smiling back in short order. “No,” I said, patting her on her knee. “It’s OK. I’m not mad,” I repeated, reassuring her.
“OK, good,” she said with an expression of relief. “Can I say something?” she asked.
“Shoot,” I said.
“So I say this with absolutely no strings attached,” she prefaced. “No hidden meaning, nothing to read in between the lines or anything like that,” Rachel continued.
“Get on with it,” I said, joking.
“It is INCREDIBLY cute how ticklish you are,” she said matter-of-factly.
I, admittedly, wasn’t expecting that, and though she had prefaced that comment with a series of conditions, and though I fully believed and subscribed to those conditions, I couldn't help but feel my face turning red from her comment. “Stop it,” I said, motioning my hands as if dismissing her comment.
“Take the compliment, girl,” Rachel advised with a laugh. “You were legit HYSTERICAL,” she laughed.
“What do you expect?” I asked, as if looking for some understanding. “You were tickling the bottom of my foot nonstop for eternity,” I added.
“OK, so first of all, it wasn’t an eternity,” Rachel corrected. “More like 30 seconds,” she stated, making me wonder if it really had been only that long. “And second,” she continued, “you literally were going crazy laughing,” she said with a laugh of her own.
“Well,” I said, not knowing what I could even say to defend myself at this point. “I have really ticklish feet,” I said, again pointing out the obvious. “And I don’t know what it was but something about it made it tickle even more, it felt like,” I said, now over-analyzing the situation myself.
Rachel smiled - a knowing smile, as if she knew something, as if she held a secret that I didn’t yet know.
“What?” I asked, looking for some more information.
“Nothing, nothing,” she said, shaking her head and trying to play it off. “You’ll figure it all out soon enough,” she said.
“Oh, no,” I said, correcting her immediately. “I will not be going through THAT again any time soon,” I stated plainly.
Rachel laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“Welcome to being a girl, hun,” she said with another laugh.
“What?” I asked again, clearly not picking up on whatever joke she was offering.
“Once people find out a girl is ticklish, it’s all over for her,” she cautioned.
“What” I asked again, as if on repeat.
“I’m just telling you how it is,” Rachel said. “Once people know a girl is ticklish, it’s like she has a giant bullseye on her,” she added, before winking and saying, “And YOU, my dear, are not JUST ticklish; you are one of if not THE most ticklish person I have ever known,” Rachel said, being sure to emphasize key words for effect.
“There’s no way…” I said, quickly dismissing her claim.
“Oh, trust me,” Rachel said with a smirk. “I’ve tickled a good amount of people in my time,” she explained, holding out her fingers as evidence, her claim now cementing why she had been so effective at it earlier. “And you are right near the top of the most ticklish people I have ever seen,” she said. I dropped my jaw in mock-awe, disbelieving her claim. She picked up on that right away and continued, “Those feet…” she started, as if continuing her lecture.
“OK, my feet are really ticklish,” I said, admitting that to be the case where it had been so evident.
“You would have been screwed with feet that ticklish growing up as a girl,” she laughed.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It’s where everybody targets,” she said. “And it’s always wide open,” she continued.
“Wide open?” I asked.
Rachel leaned in a little closer. “How many pairs of women’s socks do you even own?” she asked.
I hadn’t really ever considered that, but the answer came to me quickly. “None, I guess,” I said. “I mean,” I added, for clarification. “I wear nylons often, if you consider those socks,” I added.
Rachel laughed. “Nylons most definitely do NOT count as socks in this equation,” she said. “So you’re always either barefoot or in nylons?” she asked for clarification.
“Basically,” I said, again with no actual analysis to back it up.
“Oh, this is going to be too easy,” Rachel said with a laugh.
“Will you knock it off?” I said with a laugh.
“Sweetie,” Rachel said. “You’re ticklish. You’re very ticklish,” she corrected. “It’s part of who you are. Embrace it,” she said with a smug smile as she got up and went into the kitchen to refill her drink.
Embrace it? How does one embrace being ticklish? And what did she mean when she said this was going to be too easy? And why did she seemingly always perk up a bit when she found out I wear nylons often? I sat on the couch for a moment reflecting on everything that had just happened. Everything from the beginning of the evening and how natural it had felt being Jess with Rachel, baking cookies, sharing jokes, laughing. Laughing. Yup, I sure did a lot of that, too. I quickly scanned the room for my booties. I contemplated putting them back on for protection. That would be too obvious, though, right? But I couldn't just walk around the rest of the night without shoes on, could I? She seemed to be drawn to the nylons for some reason, and that’s all I had covering my feet right now. Is this what she meant when she said to embrace it? I had so many questions I still wanted to ask, and yet I wanted nothing more than to distance myself from any thoughts of being ticklish, as well.
After a few moments, Rachel returned to the living room, commenting on how much time was left on the timer for that last batch of cookies and once again complimenting me on my Christmas decor throughout the house. I didn’t dare bring up the subject of being ticklish again. There’d be other opportunities, I’m sure, it would seem.
Besides, I need to start getting ready for the Thomasson report...
With that said, enjoy. As always, comment and feedback is welcome.
"The Story of a Girl: Episode 1"
Oh, hey there. Welcome to the world inside my head, where all my thoughts and dreams and aspirations reside. My name is Jess. Well, I’d like you to know my name as Jess. I guess my actual birth name was something different. Then again, a lot about me was different at birth. A lot about me was different even last week. Oh yeah - this is written word and not motion picture, so you can’t see what I’m talking about. Allow me a moment to explain.
You see, I was born a man and lived my life as a man throughout my entire thirty-(mumble mumble mumble) years on this planet. What? A girl never reveals her true age. Oh, you caught that last bit, huh? Where I called myself a girl. That’s where things get trickier in my timeline. As I said, I was born as a man, and though I’d like to think I made the best of the situation, I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a significant portion of me that felt I would have made a much better woman than a man.
Now I know what some of you are probably thinking, since I hear it all the time: Jess, this is probably just some weird fascination with wanting to wear heels instead of men’s clothing. OK, while I do admit the heels are a perk I enjoy, it’s much more than that. It’s my persona. It’s my identity. It’s who I feel comfortable being. So yes, while I do enjoy the heels whenever I can, it’s not just some little fantasy world I am trying to live in when I can.
I said “when I can” because this has been a part of my life that I have completely hidden from the rest of the world. A dark secret, one that I grew up relatively ashamed of - always feeling like something was wrong with me. The world knew me as a man and that was it. And yes, I may have been the butt of many jokes because of my life interests - especially in my high school and college days - those were just jokes to the tellers; they had no idea the level of truth that each comment contained. As a result, this was a side of me that I hid from the world and kept only to myself.
Until now.
Her name is Rachel. She’s a co-worker at work. I know what you’re thinking and the answer is “nothing more than that”. Still, though, in just a short time, I felt I had made a connection with her, one that I hadn’t necessarily made with anyone else that I had known to this point. We had quickly become friends - work friends at first, as she showed me the ropes of the new job, and then coffee friends, even though we were always seemingly at odds of where to go ou caffeine kick, and then lunch friends from there, as she showed me where the best place to get buffalo mac and cheese was. She had an inviting aura about her, which I found almost ironic given her usual demeanor. Not to say that she was sheltered or prudish or anything of the like, but I had always known those with such inviting auras about them to be more like free spirits in the wind, frolicking with whatever life happened to blow in their general direction.
Rachel wasn’t necessarily like that. Rachel seemed like a planner. Like an analyzer. Like someone who studied a situation and put thought into all possible outcomes before acting. And then, yes, if all of the calculations in her mind had come out favorably, then yes, you were allowed into that inner circle of hers. It was why, when mentioning that she was helping me learn the ropes of the company, I was greeted with maybe 70% “Oh she’s so nice” and 30% “Good luck with that” from people. Clearly those 30% hadn’t come out favorably in Rachel’s mental equations; having gotten to know them more the longer I worked at the company, the more I agreed with Rachel.
And, thus, one day as we shared a coffee at the local boutique coffee shop - her choice - Rachel commented on the shoes worn by another patron of the establishment - no one that we knew. I had apparently too eagerly offered an opinion - an opinion also seemingly too intelligent for someone who was not to have any background on the subject - and thus the seeds of a conversation I never intended to have were planted. How did I know so much about shoes? Had I worked in women’s shoes before? What else did I know about women’s shoes and how to pair them with outfits?
The questions came so quickly, and my usual fortress of solitude walls were so unguarded with her, that I just blurted it out without even thinking. Of course, I instantly regretted it - if I recall, I even dramatically put my hands over my mouth out of amazement at what I had said. I figured it was over. I figured I would have lost a friend. I figured I would need to find a new job. I even figured I should probably look out of state.
But no... Instead I got a huge smile and an understanding friend. I did get a million questions, but not of the judgmental kind - of the curious kind. And most amazingly of all, I got an invitation. An invitation for a “Girl Night In”, a night that I had dreamt of having for as long as I could remember but never even fathomed it would be a possibility.
So that’s all to say how I found myself staring at the woman looking back at me in the mirror, knowing that, for the first time, there was someone on the other side of my bedroom door who would be seeing Jess when I walked out of the security of my bedroom. Butterflies flew about in my stomach as I wondered if I had made a grave mistake. Every possible “worst outcome imaginable” played through in my mind, each one more ridiculous in nature than the previous, but each one serving to intensify the flight of the butterflies. As I pondered the possibility that the exterior walls of my house would crumble down the second I walked into the living room, leaving me as Jess on full display to the entire neighborhood, I realized how ridiculous I was being.
‘Damn, girl, you look good,’ I said to myself as I gave myself a once-over with a renewed mindset. Indeed, I had been contemplating this outfit since Rachel first suggested this evening. My debut outfit, if you will. It was simple, yet sophisticated. Comfortable, yet classy. Suitable for a quiet girls night in, yet also fashionable enough to show I had put thought into my outfit.
It was a pair of skinny blue jeans that contoured to my legs just enough to work and yet not too much to be inappropriate. Above that I had gone for the layered look, one of my trademarks. I had a black shapewear camisole that I had tucked into my jeans, and above that, a white tank top - itself having a little elasticity to it so that it clung to my sides. Since it was December, above that, I wore an open cardigan sweater - red in color, for the holiday - that was extra long in the back. My hair sat on my shoulders, combed and neat but not defined by any particular style at the moment. The outfit was completed by my most recent indulgence for myself - a pair of thigh-high boots, taupe in color, that added an extra three inches to my stature by way of their heels. I admittedly did not need the extra inches in any way, already having a man’s stature, but I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to wear heels. I knew most people didn’t have the time of day for someone like me, but I felt pretty confident that I would at least give myself a second glance if I had seen myself walking down the street.
“Are we doing this or what?” Rachel shouted from the living room, no doubt wondering where I was and whether I had developed cold feet.
‘Now or never,’ I said to myself, as I turned away from the mirror and made my way to the door. I paused for a moment before turning the knob, realizing the enormity of what was happening - once I walked out of this room, someone in the real world would have seen me for the first time, and there was no coming back from that. Reminding myself that this was Rachel’s idea, I twisted the knob and began walking down the hallway towards the living room.
“Do I hear heels?” Rachel asked as the click-clock of my heels against the hardwood flooring resonated down the hallway into the living room. I felt myself turning a brighter shade of red as I neared the entry into the living room.
“Oh my gosh,” Rachel said, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth as she began laughing as I made my entrance. Laughter wasn’t what I was hoping for - I wasn’t sure WHAT I was hoping for - but I could tell this laughter was more “HGTV home reveal” laughter than derogatory laughter. “You look AMAZING,” Rachel said, darting her hands in front of her now for emphasis.
“Knock it off,” I said, fearing her reaction was a little over-the-top.
“No, I mean it,” she said, still taking in the whole aura that was my presence. “I mean, I’ll be honest - I wasn’t sure what to expect and was kind of bracing for the worst,” she said with renewed laughter. “But no,” she continued, pausing for a moment. “Honestly, if I didn’t know this was you, I’dve just thought it was another new girl in the office,” she said.
“Awww,” I said, bringing my hands to my heart to show my gratitude, all those ridiculous scenarios that had been running through my head a short while ago now a distant memory. “Thanks so much,” I said.
“I am really impressed with this side of you, Jess,” she said with a smile.
“Aww, you called me Jess,” I said.
“Well, that’s your name,” she said rather matter-of-factly.
“No, no, I know,” I said, stammering a bit to find my words. “I just didn’t expect…” I said, tailing off.
“Well, don’t expect,” Rachel said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Just be,” she said. “Now come on,” she said, her tone changing to a more jovial one. “You promised me cookies,” she said with a laugh.
And thus it was that we enjoyed the afternoon together, listening to Christmas carols and baking Christmas cookies while complaining about office co-workers and… and just being friends. Being care-free. Being natural.
As the last batch of cookies went into the oven, Rachel and I plopped down onto the couch, still within earshot of the oven time while allowing ourselves a moment of rest. I crossed my legs as I fell back into the cushions of the couch, releasing a heavy sigh as I did.
Looking back, as I am doing now, I of course see the err of my ways and kick myself for allowing the events to play out as they did. At the time, of course, something like this was the absolute last thing on my mind; never in a million years would I have thought to put that on my Bingo card of things that were going to happen that night
It started out innocent enough…
“I’ve got to hand it to you for going with the heels all day long,” Rachel said as we sat on the couch.
“I mean, I kind of had to, right?” I asked metaphorically, lifting up my leg to show off my heels a bit. “What’s a girls night if you’re not going to wear heels?” I asked with a laugh.
“Oh, you’ll be singing a different tune soon, I’m sure,” laughed Rachel. “Though it’s been, what, about five hours or so, so far?” she asked, looking at her watch to see how much time had passed. “Oh my gosh, it’s been closer to six!” she said in astonishment.
“Time sure flies when you’re having fun,” I said, amazed, myself, that what had seemed like only an hour or so had actually been the better portion of the afternoon. “Makes sense, though,” I continued. “The sun was up when we started and now it’s pitch black outside,” I said, referencing the disappointing early sunsets of the winter months.
“I won’t lie,” Rachel said. “I had you kicking those heels off after an hour, tops,” she said.
“No way,” I said in faux-disbelief. “I wear heels often, actually,” I continued, “though I admittedly don’t do as much walking around in them as we did today,” I added. “I can see why foot massages are such a big thing for women now,” I said.
“Girl, you have not lived until you’ve had a foot massage after a day in heels,” Rachel said with wisdom. “Here,” she motioned, patting her lap with her hands. “Plop them up here,” she offered.
“Oh, no,” I said. “You don’t have to do that,” I said in mock-protest, though my entire being was hoping Rachel would insist to the point where I couldn’t refuse. Listen, I love these boots, and I’d wear them again in a heartbeat, but a foot massage right about this time sounded heavenly.
“Put them up here,” Rachel insisted with a more emphatic patting of her lap. “Girls do for each other like this,” said. “Besides, now you’ll owe me,” she said.
“I mean, if you’re sure you’re OK with it,” I said, bending down to undo the zipper along the inside of each boot before pulling each one off with a yank. Honestly, just pulling the boots off at this point offered relief that I didn’t even know I was seeking. I shifted in my seat on the couch so I was now facing Rachel and swung my legs up on her lap, ready for my massage.
“Oh,” Rachel said with slight hesitation as my legs landed on her lap. “You’re wearing nylons?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, not knowing if I had committed a feminine faux-pas so soon into my tenure. “Is that OK?” I asked, beginning to pull my legs back.
“Yeah, of course” Rachel said, her tone changed from before. “I just wasn’t expecting it, is all. You really went the full girl route tonight, huh?” she asked. “Impressive.”
“Well” I said, feeling as if I had to justify my outfit selection to Rachel. “It just makes everything more comfortable," I said. “Plus, this apartment can be an ice box at times,” I said, trying to rattle off as many reasons as I could.
“You don’t have to explain,” Rachel said. “I’ve worn nylons under jeans countless times, too. I just wasn’t expecting it, is all. It’s impressive that you went all out,” she complimented.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling a bit more relaxed.
“A full day walking in heels and making it through the day without putting a run in your nylons,” Rachel remarked. “Impressive,” she said, nodding her head in approval.
“I’ve had practice,” I said with a laugh.
Rachel lifted up my foot and began to work her magic. Oh my gosh… She was right. There is no greater joy than having your feet rubbed after you’ve been walking in heels all day. I get it now. I really do. I allowed myself to fall even deeper into the cushions of the couch as my body absorbed all of the comfort that Rachel’s hands were doling out.
“Feel good?” Rachel asked, finding it humorous that I had been so easily swayed.
“Oh my word,” I said, not even needing to answer. “This is bliss,” I said, a smile covering my face. “And you said you’d do this for me every time I wear heels?” I asked, sort of stretching her words a bit.
Rachel tilted her head a bit to me recognizing what I was trying to do. “Hey, if you keep making me these delicious cookies, you might have a deal,” she said with a laugh.
She continued kneading the bottom of my foot, massaging away every ache and discomfort as she did, sending me further and further into a relaxed state. Everything was peaceful. Everything was serene. Everything was bliss.
Until it wasn’t.
I don’t even think that she did it on purpose. I think it was genuinely accidental. At least her reaction to it all suggested so. And again, looking back, knowing what I know, I should have realized it was inevitable, bound to happen.
As Rachel was focusing on the ball of my foot, near my toes, the tip of one of her fingernails from another finger brushed up against the arch of my foot, causing me to shoot up with a shriek and recoil my leg with lightning-like speed.
For a moment, we both sat there, staring at each other, each of us taking in what had just occurred. I sat there not knowing what to do. Do I acknowledge what had just happened? Do we play it off like nothing happened? I wanted so much to control the narrative of this incident but I just sat there, frozen.
“What was that?” Rachel asked initially, her hands still mid-air where my foot used to be.
“Oh,” I said, stammering, not sure what to say. Knowing that I needed to say something, but wanting to say literally anything EXCEPT for what it actually was. “Ahm, it was nothing,” I said, clearly lying through my teeth.
“Nothing,” she said, though I could see the wheels turning in her mind as she processed what had just happened. A sly smile crossed her face that she couldn’t even hide. “Are you,” she began, pausing as I believe she couldn’t believe she was about to ask this of a work colleague. “Are you ticklish?” she asked, only somewhat able to hide the schoolgirl glee she had in asking the question.
“No,” I said, way too quickly and way too unconvincingly. “No,” I repeated. “I just got startled, I think,” I said, realizing that what I had just said didn’t even make sense.
Yes. Yes, of course I was ticklish. Ticklish doesn’t even begin to describe it. Choose your adjective. Wicked ticklish. Outrageously ticklish. Absurdly ticklish. Insanely ticklish. Deathly ticklish. I’ve been called them all before, and they’re not wrong. And my feet. My feet are just a collection of nerve endings all bundled together in one spot so sensitive that even walking barefoot in the grass used to tickle.
I just couldn't believe that I was STILL ticklish. And certainly that I was still THAT ticklish. Truthfully, it was just the brushing of a fingernail against the arch of my foot, but if I could have jumped though the roof, I would have.
Nothing was peaceful. Nothing was serene. Nothing was blissful.
“Oh,” Rachel said, responding to my obvious lie. “Well, if you’re not ticklish,” she said, and began patting her lap again.
What could I do? I had painted myself into a corner. I said I wasn’t ticklish, so there was literally no reason for me not to comply with her request. And yet it was painfully obvious to everyone in the room that I was indeed ticklish and now I was faced with the prospect of putting my feet back into the arms of the one who had just found out I was ticklish. There was nothing else that I could do. Cautiously, I placed my feet back on Rachel’s lap
Instinctively, I flinched when Rachel picked up my foot again. Nowhere neat to the level that I had recoiled a moment ago, for sure, but it was definitely noticeable. My body had just assumed a ticklish touch. Rachel began her massage again, picking up on the balls of my foot where she had left off. I tried to get as comfortable as I could, though any sense of relaxation was long out the window at this point.
Now, it was about survival.
“You know,” Rachel said, looking over my foot down to me as she continued her massage. “It’s a good thing you’re not ticklish,” she said, lowering the focus area of her massage from the ball of my foot into the top portion of my arch now. Danger zone. “I have a friend who has wicked ticklish feet,” Rachel said, “and she can barely sit still during a foot massage,” she said, staring at me for a reaction
“Yeah,” I said, looking for any possible way to change the subject yet knowing that that was the absolute last thing that Rachel would allow. I could feel Rachel lightening her touch almost imperceptibly, the once firm grip now a somewhat softer hold and she allowed her thumb to move ever so slightly, no more than a few millimeters from its original.
But a soft enough touch and a long enough move for my foot to once again betray me.
Instinctively, my foot curled ever so slightly, as if trying to distance itself from that tortuous touch that was residing on its arch. Honestly, had I not had the incident where I recoiled like a spring a moment ago, this foot curl might have been small enough that Rachel may not have noticed. But there was no way she missed it. Where the initial incident may have been accidental, this reeked of cold-hearted calculation. If there were any doubt, the small smile that spread across Rachel’s face gave her away.
I wondered for a moment what Rachel was thinking. She had clearly just stumbled onto something accidentally, and it was a “something” that she seemingly wasn’t going to let go of. She clearly knew. She had to. She tightened her grip on my feet and continued her massage.
“I would always tell her,” Rachel continued on about her friend, “that she was just as ticklish as a little kid,” Rachel said with a smirk. “I mean, imagine being so ticklish that you can’t sit still during a foot massage,” she said, her words feeling very weighty as they hung in the air.
“Mmmm,” I mumbled, not daring to even open my mouth out of fear that a giggle or two might accidentally escape. Rachel had zoned in on my arch as a particular area of weakness and she wasn’t letting up. My toes curled and my calf muscles spasmed as Rachel delicately dragged her thumb along the curve of my arch. Whereas initially Rachel likely wasn’t even trying to tickle, each successive touch now registered more as a tickle than the last, and if this pattern continued, I was doomed.
I cursed myself as Rachel’s words echoed in my ear. How could I still be so ticklish? I mean, it wasn’t a complete and total surprise. As I said, I had always been unfathomably ticklish. I remember with clarity the look of pure joy as many of my ex-girlfriends in college had discovered that I was more ticklish than they were. As they realized the power that they now possessed. It was a look quite similar to what I was seeing in Rachel’s eyes right now. But that was years ago. I hadn’t been tickled in so long. I guess part of me assumed that I wasn’t ticklish anymore? Or at the very least, not as helplessly ticklish as I used to be?
“Still relaxed down there?” she asked, taking an inventory of how I was handling the situation.
“Mmmm, yes,” I said, feeling that I needed to actually mouth words to be even the least bit believable, though I was about as far from relaxed as one could get as I battled this tight-rope walk of maintaining composure.
“Though I suppose if you’re not ticklish, you don’t know what that’s like,” Rachel said, clearly not letting the topic die. Every time she even mentioned the word ‘ticklish’ I seemed to flinch a bit at this point, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Rachel.
“Yeah,” I said, reduced solely to monosyllabic words at this point as I focused the majority of my energy into blocking out the ticklish sensations that were growing on the bottom of my foot.
And yet Rachel refused to leave that arch. She had identified it as the main area of weakness and targeted it over the… oh my word, how had it only been fifteen seconds??!!! She knew that with a continued focus on my arch, my body would eventually betray me. She knew I was toast.
And then, just like that, it was over. She still held my foot in her hand, but her thumb had left my arch, her entire hand no longer making contact with any portion of the bottom of my foot. Had I done it? Had I survived? Had I made it through without having to confront the obvious?
“Feel better?” she asked.
“Much,” I said, breathing a deep internal sigh of relief. “That was amazing,” I said, trying to play off any struggle that I may or may not have endured.
I had done it. Or so I thought…
“Oh,” Rachel said, her face showing some concern. “You’ve just got a little something,” she said, as she studied the bottom of my foot
And then she did it.
While pretending to dust something off the bottom of my foot, Rachel extended all four fingers and dragged the tips of them from the ball of my foot, down the arch, and onto the heel.
Or at least the heel was the intended target, I’m sure. I say that because they never had the opportunity to land there. As soon as my mind registered four fingers tracing down the bottom of my foot, my leg recoiled as quickly as it could, pulling its appendage to safety immediately as I let out an audible shriek.
There was no denying it now. There was no doubt what Rachel had tried to do. There was no doubt how I had reacted to it. It was pointless for either of us to pretend we didn’t know what had happened
And yet I persisted…
“You are SO ticklish,” Rachel said with a laugh, looking at me as I sat frozen, trying to contemplate my next move.
“No,” I said, still unable to state the obvious. I searched for an excuse for my action but Rachel didn’t give me any time.
“Oh, really?” she asked, lunging to get a hold of my ankle again.
“NO!” I shrieked, jumping back as far as I could on the couch and swinging my legs so both of my feet were now under my body and away from Rachel.
“What’s wrong, Miss I’m Not Ticklish?” Rachel asked with a laugh as she tried to coax one of my feet out of its hiding spot.
“OK, OK, I’m ticklish,” I finally admitted, the defeat in my voice sounding clear as day. “But you were messing with my feet,” I said, trying to defend myself in any way I could think.
“I had no idea you were this ticklish,” Rachel said, ignoring my defense.
“It’s not that bad,” I said, trying to save face. “You said yourself you had a friend who can’t sit still during foot massages,” I said, hoping to put the ticklish tag on someone else for the time being.
“Yeah, and you are way more ticklish than she is, “Rachel said with glee, sticking her tongue out at me as she made her statement.
“Am not,” I said, protesting, though I didn’t even know who she was referring to.
As I denied her claim, Rachel shot her hands at me, as if she were planning another tickle attack. Naturally, I jumped, flinching to get out of the way of any potential attack. I admit - it wasn’t a good look for me.
“See?’ Rachel said. “I don’t even have to touch you,” she said with another laugh. “All this time you were hiding this weakness from me,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s not a weakness,” I said, defiantly. “Listen, let’s just relax here and go back to watching TV while we wait for the cookies to finish baking,” I said, hoping to lure her back into a sense of normalcy with the thought of cookies.
“OK,” she said, going along with my plan - or so I thought. “You just bring your legs back out from hiding and we can all go back to the way things were,” she said, daring me to danger.
“No,” I said, sensing her next move. “I’m comfortable the way I am,” I continued, trying to convince myself of that..
OK,” she said with a smile, staring at me to make me question what she had planned. I was so focused on her efforts to get me to reveal my feet again that I hadn’t considered an alternate attack, though that was exactly what Rachel had in mind.
Target: my sides.
She darted her hands towards both sides, missing with her right hand but latching on with her left hand. One of my love handles proved far too easy for her to clamp onto, pinching and twisting and scratching her fingers through the material as it clung to my side. I jumped back to get away from the attack, but the arm of the couch caught me, trapping me
“Rachel, no!” I squealed, trying to twist and turn to somehow unlatch her hand from my side. Her claw-like grip would have impressed Baron von Rachke himself, and she continued to navigate her hand around my sensitive side. Laughter flowed freely and easily from my mouth as I tried to save myself. I grabbed onto her wrist, trying to pull her hand away, but not only was she surprisingly strong, I was also being weakened by the second by the laughter escaping my mouth
“No, stop!” I begged through the laughter. I could feel each movement as her fingers continued squeezing my side. The elasticity of the top I had on only served to cling the material close to my sides, thus eliminating any possibility of a large clump of clothing material impeding her ability to tickle my side.
“Let me guess,” Rachel said, clearly enjoying her current lot in life. “Are your sides not ticklish, either?” she asked rhetorically, sensing I was far too lost to laughter to be able to respond to her question. I was in a bad spot, trapped against the arm of the couch with nowhere to go, with only T-Rex arms to try to fight her off, lest I risk exposing any other part of my sides to her tickle attack.
But I was about to enter into a much worse spot.
Needing anything to escape her tickling fingers, I slouched down a bit on the couch, hoping that the lower angle of my side would require her to lose her grip on my love handle. For a brief moment, I had won, as that was indeed the exact result of my action. Yes, Rachel still technically sat over me, but at the very least, for a brief moment, I could breathe again.
What I hadn’t considered in my move, though, was that scootching down a bit more on the couch had also caused my leg to pop out from its previous hiding spot of being under my body - my body having long ago lost the ability to maintain such a position without irreversible consequences.
Rachel’s eyes made it very clear that she was well aware that my leg had escaped its hiding spot and before I had a chance to even resist, she had jumped from her current position to the other side of the couch, landing her body weight directly across my shin and trapping my foot to the couch.
“No! Not my feet!” I begged - foolishly - as she had already triumphed in trapping my foot in place. I tried pulling my leg from her grip, to no avail.
“Oh, so the feet ARE the weak spot,” Rachel asked, as if she has been studying my every vulnerability since this entire process began.
“Yes! No!” I shouted, honestly, too beside myself at this point to even think about what to say. “How are you so strong?” I asked as I continued trying to pull her leg from her grip futilely.
“Lots of gym days,” she said. “Got it!” she shouted triumphantly, as she secured my ankle in a headlock under her arm, leaving the bottom of my foot prone and vulnerable to her whim and fancy.
“Rachel, no,” I begged, trying to sit up to get closer to her to plead my case. “Please, don’t,” I continued, pathetically. “Please just don-” but the words were cut off by a torrent of laughter, as Rachel had begun her assault.
She hadn’t begun it with a teasing test or a simple finger going down the bottom of my foot. No. She started out with a full-on assault, dancing all four of her fingers across my exposed arch, sending me into an instant fit of hysterical laughter.
I feel backwards on the couch, laughing uncontrollably, trying to grab any throw pillow or anything I could muster at her to try to get her to stop. My eyes pressed shut as I was enveloped in the laughter, unable to even form the words to beg for mercy that wasn’t coming. I started furiously tapping out on the couch cushions, hoping she’d recognize that as a symbol of admitting defeat.
And yet she continued.
She was good. She was damn good. Her earlier detective work had laid out a ground plan of sensitive areas for her, and she hadn’t forgotten about them. She first targeted the arch, recognizing that as my weak spot earlier. She didn’t stay in one spot for long, though, never allowing me even a moment of relief as I may have become used to a particular feeling. She danced from my arch to my heel to the ball of my foot to my toes; she even assaulted the top of my foot
She varied her technique, alternating between straight up tickles to one that focused more on dragging her nails across my foot to one that focused on drawing circles in a particular area. When she saw that I was trying to squeeze my foot down to produce some wrinkles that may interrupt her flow of tickling, she grasped at my toes, pulling them back and ensuring that the bottom of my foot remained taut and free of impediment to her tickles. .
This wasn’t a tickle fight. This was a tickle massacre. This was someone who was very skilled at tickling - an expert, perhaps - against someone who was clearly still incredibly ticklish - even at my age now. This was one person identifying another person’s most ticklish spot and exploiting that area to her own fancy. This was that one person’s most ticklish spot being completely open and vulnerable to that expert tickler.
“Rachel, please!” I shouted, surprising even myself that I was able to form words at this point.
“How are you even this ticklish?” she asked amidst her own laughter. I struggled to breathe and fell into that silent laughter phase - where you’re laughing so much but no noise is even coming out of your mouth. I knew this stage well from my past. I slammed my hand even more against the couch cushions, hoping that with the lack of laughter noise Rachel would recognize that I was giving up. Nothing.
“I honestly had no idea you were this ticklish,” Rachel said, continuing to analyze the situation as she tickled away. Every time she even said the word ticklish it felt like I was somehow becoming even more ticklish right in front of her.
Her fingers danced across the bottom of my foot as if they were ballerinas dancing to the Nutcracker and my foot their stage - their prone, vulnerable stage. The nylons did absolutely nothing to protect against the ticklish touches - if anything, if it were even possible, they were likely making the entire ordeal even worse.
I cursed myself for landing in this position. Just a short while ago, I was safe, my feet protected by the boots that I had been wearing all day. Sure, my feet were aching at this point, but at least they were safe. My secret was still hidden. My weakness not yet revealed. Now, within five minutes of removing my boots, my entire world had changed; Rachel had discovered how ticklish I was and had proven to be more than happy to take advantage of the situation.
“You have to stop,” I begged, feeling I was bordering on sanity and insanity at this moment, unable to do anything but laugh at this point. I was too weak to even put up much of a struggle anymore.
“You’re getting the true girl experience,” Rachel said, as if suggesting I had requested this.
“Please, I’ll do anything,” I begged, at this point not even fully sure of the words that were coming out of my mouth.
“Anything?” asked Rachel, clearly intrigued by the idea I had proposed.
I shook my head emphatically up and down, half-knowing the dangerous road I was going down but also recognizing that few things would be worse than what I was currently enduring. And more than anything, I needed this tickling to stop.
“That report is due to the Thomasson client on Monday morning,” Rachel said out loud, her words hanging in the air for a moment as she seemingly thought this through herself. “I wonder if there’s any way you could be talked into doing it for me,” she said with hesitation, as if testing the limits of this new, bold strategy.
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” I screamed, hoping that this was the key that would open the lock to end the constant tickling. The Thomasson report was a pain in the butt, and the Thomasson clients even moreso. It’s not that the report was difficult; it was just arduous, and the Thomasson clients picked it apart with a fine-toothed comb. If even so much as the font size was .5 larger than expected, there’d be emails sent to everyone up the chain, and you’d be in for an entire afternoon of visits by your desk from those folks reminding you how to format the report. As hellacious as that all sounded, it seemed like a walk in the park compared to my current plight.
“Really?” Rachel asked, seemingly stunned enough by my willingness to do the Thomasson report that she almost - almost - stopped tickling for a moment. “You’ll do the Thomasson report? Just because I’m tickling you?” she asked, seeking confirmation.
“It tickles SO much!” I screamed, trying to explain to her my willingness to accept the Thomasson report. Of course, I instantly regretted my choice of words and wished I could undo them, for they only served to fuel the fire within Rachel, as she became even more aware of the true power that she held in her menacing fingertips.
“Really?” she asked, now increasing her tickling efforts as she contemplated what else she could ask for. “I don’t suppose you’d bring me in a coffee Monday morning, would you?” she asked.
“YES!” I screamed, as with each passing second I moved closer and closer to agreeing to felonies and misdemeanors if it would end the tickling.
“I’m not talking chain coffee,” she said. “I want true coffee house coffee. You know the kind I like,” she said.
“ANYTHING!” I begged. “Please stop tickling,” I gasped, falling back in the trap of silent laughter. I was breaking. It hadn’t even been a full minute yet and I was breaking. Rachel had identified the most ticklish spot on my body and had targeted it - unrelentingly so - and doing so had brought me to the brink.
“Does it really tickle that much?” Rachel asked, pausing for a moment and, maybe perhaps, just showing the slightest bit of compassion for the torture that she had just put me through.
“Yes,” I said with a cough, as I struggled to catch my breath again.
Rachel sat there for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to do next. On one hand, she had a look of almost-sympathy on her face, as if she was only just now fully processing just how much torture she had put me through with her tickling. On the other hand, she still had an iron-clad lock on my ankle, making sure my foot remained trapped if she decided to continue with her tickling exploits.
“Just how ticklish ARE you?” she asked, almost bewilderedly, as if the events of the last - how long had it been? - weren’t enough evidence to answer that question.
“Pretty ticklish,” I said, not sure of the best way to answer that question. I mean, obviously there was no sense in denying it at this point. But I feared a response that either spoke too low or too high of my ticklishness would prompt additional tickling. I needed to be right in the middle.
“You’re serious?” Rachel asked, though I remained flabbergasted as to how she could still not understand it. For emphasis, she drew one single line down the bottom of my still-trapped foot with the tip of her nai.
“Eeek!” I shrieked and tried to pull away, though to no avail. “Yes, I’m serious,” I retorted.
“And you’re really going to do the Thomasson report AND bring me coffee on Monday?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said, as I again tried to pull my trapped ankle free from Rachel’s death grip.
“And just to be clear,” Rachel said, “you’re only doing that because I was tickling you?” she asked, continuing to replay the events back.
“Yes,” I said, admittedly rather annoyedly as I felt all these answers were fairly self-evident. “Why do you keep asking?” I asked, finally.
“I’m just having a hard time processing how you can be so ticklish,” Rachel said in a smart-alec manner, again dragging a finger down the bottom of my foot for emphasis.
Once again, I jumped. “Well, I am,” I said. “Clearly,” I added, for my own emphasis.
“Yes, you are,” Rachel said with a laugh, skittering her fingers along my arch one more time.
“Rachel!” I squealed through the laughter.
“I can’t help it,” Rachel said, somewhat apologetically, as if she actually, truly could not help it. “I had no idea you were this ticklish…” she said, dragging another finger down my foot.
“Ah!” I squeaked, still unable to muster any defense against her attacks. “Well, now you know,” I said, hoping that that put an end to it.
“Yes, now I do know,” she said, the hint of evil, even in its playful form, gleaming in her eye.
We stared at each other momentarily as the weight of what had just happened truly landed on our shoulders. She knew. Two words that would change the framework, the structure of our friendship going forward. Rachel knew. She knew I was ticklish. She knew how ticklish I was. She knew where I was most ticklish. She knew the easiest way to tickle me. And she knew exactly how she could benefit from this knowledge. She knew. And there was no going back.
“Can I have my foot back?” I finally asked, wanting some sense of safety from any further attack.
Rachel let go quickly and I recoiled my foot just as quickly, tucking it once again under my body where it would remain, hopefully, safe from further attacks - though much good it did me before.
“Are you mad?” Rachel asked, her voice inflecting to a great degree and her eyebrows arched as to express hopefulness that I wasn’t mad at her.
I looked at her plainly, at first, hoping to trick her for a moment, but my poker face showed too quickly, and I was smiling back in short order. “No,” I said, patting her on her knee. “It’s OK. I’m not mad,” I repeated, reassuring her.
“OK, good,” she said with an expression of relief. “Can I say something?” she asked.
“Shoot,” I said.
“So I say this with absolutely no strings attached,” she prefaced. “No hidden meaning, nothing to read in between the lines or anything like that,” Rachel continued.
“Get on with it,” I said, joking.
“It is INCREDIBLY cute how ticklish you are,” she said matter-of-factly.
I, admittedly, wasn’t expecting that, and though she had prefaced that comment with a series of conditions, and though I fully believed and subscribed to those conditions, I couldn't help but feel my face turning red from her comment. “Stop it,” I said, motioning my hands as if dismissing her comment.
“Take the compliment, girl,” Rachel advised with a laugh. “You were legit HYSTERICAL,” she laughed.
“What do you expect?” I asked, as if looking for some understanding. “You were tickling the bottom of my foot nonstop for eternity,” I added.
“OK, so first of all, it wasn’t an eternity,” Rachel corrected. “More like 30 seconds,” she stated, making me wonder if it really had been only that long. “And second,” she continued, “you literally were going crazy laughing,” she said with a laugh of her own.
“Well,” I said, not knowing what I could even say to defend myself at this point. “I have really ticklish feet,” I said, again pointing out the obvious. “And I don’t know what it was but something about it made it tickle even more, it felt like,” I said, now over-analyzing the situation myself.
Rachel smiled - a knowing smile, as if she knew something, as if she held a secret that I didn’t yet know.
“What?” I asked, looking for some more information.
“Nothing, nothing,” she said, shaking her head and trying to play it off. “You’ll figure it all out soon enough,” she said.
“Oh, no,” I said, correcting her immediately. “I will not be going through THAT again any time soon,” I stated plainly.
Rachel laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“Welcome to being a girl, hun,” she said with another laugh.
“What?” I asked again, clearly not picking up on whatever joke she was offering.
“Once people find out a girl is ticklish, it’s all over for her,” she cautioned.
“What” I asked again, as if on repeat.
“I’m just telling you how it is,” Rachel said. “Once people know a girl is ticklish, it’s like she has a giant bullseye on her,” she added, before winking and saying, “And YOU, my dear, are not JUST ticklish; you are one of if not THE most ticklish person I have ever known,” Rachel said, being sure to emphasize key words for effect.
“There’s no way…” I said, quickly dismissing her claim.
“Oh, trust me,” Rachel said with a smirk. “I’ve tickled a good amount of people in my time,” she explained, holding out her fingers as evidence, her claim now cementing why she had been so effective at it earlier. “And you are right near the top of the most ticklish people I have ever seen,” she said. I dropped my jaw in mock-awe, disbelieving her claim. She picked up on that right away and continued, “Those feet…” she started, as if continuing her lecture.
“OK, my feet are really ticklish,” I said, admitting that to be the case where it had been so evident.
“You would have been screwed with feet that ticklish growing up as a girl,” she laughed.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It’s where everybody targets,” she said. “And it’s always wide open,” she continued.
“Wide open?” I asked.
Rachel leaned in a little closer. “How many pairs of women’s socks do you even own?” she asked.
I hadn’t really ever considered that, but the answer came to me quickly. “None, I guess,” I said. “I mean,” I added, for clarification. “I wear nylons often, if you consider those socks,” I added.
Rachel laughed. “Nylons most definitely do NOT count as socks in this equation,” she said. “So you’re always either barefoot or in nylons?” she asked for clarification.
“Basically,” I said, again with no actual analysis to back it up.
“Oh, this is going to be too easy,” Rachel said with a laugh.
“Will you knock it off?” I said with a laugh.
“Sweetie,” Rachel said. “You’re ticklish. You’re very ticklish,” she corrected. “It’s part of who you are. Embrace it,” she said with a smug smile as she got up and went into the kitchen to refill her drink.
Embrace it? How does one embrace being ticklish? And what did she mean when she said this was going to be too easy? And why did she seemingly always perk up a bit when she found out I wear nylons often? I sat on the couch for a moment reflecting on everything that had just happened. Everything from the beginning of the evening and how natural it had felt being Jess with Rachel, baking cookies, sharing jokes, laughing. Laughing. Yup, I sure did a lot of that, too. I quickly scanned the room for my booties. I contemplated putting them back on for protection. That would be too obvious, though, right? But I couldn't just walk around the rest of the night without shoes on, could I? She seemed to be drawn to the nylons for some reason, and that’s all I had covering my feet right now. Is this what she meant when she said to embrace it? I had so many questions I still wanted to ask, and yet I wanted nothing more than to distance myself from any thoughts of being ticklish, as well.
After a few moments, Rachel returned to the living room, commenting on how much time was left on the timer for that last batch of cookies and once again complimenting me on my Christmas decor throughout the house. I didn’t dare bring up the subject of being ticklish again. There’d be other opportunities, I’m sure, it would seem.
Besides, I need to start getting ready for the Thomasson report...
