I’m in Dallas TX all this week and I really wanted some tickling. Maybe it’s because back in the eighties I dated a really fine woman from Dallas who described herself to me on our first date as a “chronic tickler,” and never once failed to live up to that provocative self-description.
I tried looking up “tickling” in the yellow pages which granted, was a little silly, but I just had to rule out the possibility. Then I looked under “massage” and there was at least two pages of listings.
Discounting all of the esoteric and cultural forms of massage like Swiss, Shiatsu, Korean, whatever; there are basically two types of establishments that provide massage:
Type one: Those that offer genuine therapeutic massage. They are often associated with beauty salons such as Beaux Visages or Just Nails. Others are liscenced to practice massage out of their own home. You’ll get a really nice relaxing massage while listening to some soft, almost hypnotic seashore music.
Type two: Those that offer sensual massage as a prelude to soft-core sex. Often there is a sauna or steam cabinet before the massage. Then the massage comes, which is usually pretty good, but not as thorough as the type one masseuses. Once the massage is done, she asks if there is anything else she can do for you, with a smile and a wink. Next thing you know, she’s chokin the one-eyed viper.
So I’m pouring through the listings in the yellow pages, which had both types. You can pretty much tell which type they are by the thrust of their advertising. The type one’s will talk about how relaxed and healthy you’ll feel, and will often mention their credentials. The type two’s usually specify an all female staff and late hours, and will often offer the option of coming to your hotel room.
I finally decided on a place called Stacy’s Massage. I couldn’t tell which type it was, and something kind of in between would suit me just fine. When I walked in the place and got one look at the receptionist, I thought “definitely type two.” She had that slutty goth look to her, black hair and a black dress with no stockings, and absolutely no tan whatsoever. After paying for the massage, I was led back to a private room with a professional massage table by a pleasantly attractive African American girl with a slightly oversized bottom, to which I found myself taking a great liking. She was dressed in plain cotton pants and a sleeveless top. Moderately attractive attire, but certainly nothing provocative. I thought “hmm…no steam or sauna…professional massage table….new age music….this all says ‘type one’ to me.”
She asked me to remove my clothing and lie face down on the massage table, covering myself with a towel. She came back in and without a word, started right into the massage, just lightly moving her hands on my back with almost no pressure. At this point, I’m thinking, “Hmm….she didn’t ask me if I had any specific area she should work on…plus, she’s using almost no pressure….gotta be ‘type two.’” But then, she started massaging in earnest, and I could tell she knew what she was doing. She expertly located areas of tension and stress and efficiently dealt with them. For a half hour, she worked on me without saying a word. I was quiet as well, leaving it up to her as to when to break the silence. She worked on my back, my ass, my thighs, and my calves. My thighs are really ticklish, but I was in such a relaxed state, I was easily able to contain the sensation.
Finally, she she breaks the silence.
“Drew?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“How do you feel?”
“Absolutely wonderful. You really know what you’re doing.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Could I get you to turn over?”
“Sure.” I turned over while she held the towel in place. That towel was still the only thing covering my privates.
She started massaging the front of my thighs and again, though it normally would have sent me into a giggling squirmfest, I was able to maintain control due to the relaxed state I was in.
“By the way,” I said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but I’m very ticklish.”
“You are?” she asked.
“Yes, but please don’t let it hinder the massage in any way. I mean, if I flinch or laugh, just keep going.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I know what to do.”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I actually like the tickling.”
“Oh, okay,” she said, a little confused.
“Yeah, I used to get all my girlfriends to sit on my ankles and tickle my feet like crazy.”
She gave me a quick glance, to see if I was pulling her leg. Five minutes later, she’s massaging my feet, and the level of tickling is well within my boundaries of tolerance.
“You’re not ticklish,” she said presently. “I thought you said you were ticklish.”
“I am,” I said. “I’m just real good at holding it in.”
She smiled, and began massaging the other foot. “Does this tickle?” she asked.
“Yes, it does,” I said. “And it feels great.”
A moment later she goes back to the first foot, and to my surprise and delight, she began lightly scratching her nails in the area just under the toes. She was no longer just massaging, but deliberately tickling my foot. It was at least twice as intense as before, and I began laughing quietly.
“You know, it would probably work better if you held down my ankle with your free hand,” I told her.
She did that very thing. She held down my ankle so I couldn’t move it as easily, and continued tickling my right foot. I laughed, but still in that quiet whispery way, while my face contorted somewhat in a mild grimace of torture. Her nails were kind of long, but not too long. She went in between each two and tickled. I was beside myself with tortured mirth. “Drew, you crazy!” she said with a laugh, and began tickling the other foot in the same way. It was just awesome, and I got the idea that she was enjoying it herself.
After tickling my feet for ten minutes or so, she moved up to my ribs and armpits, at my suggestion. At first it didn’t tickle, because that area was still receptive to her touch. But before long, she located a few extrasensitive points and exploited them. After that, my defenses were shot. Everywhere on my torso she tickled me, I erupted in uncontrollable laughter and squirming. I tried my best to hold still, because all I had covering me was a towel laying across my groin.
“This is too funny,” she said. “Nobody’s ever asked me for this before.” She took my hand, and walk up, pulling my arm over my head. Then she’d attack the pit and ribs, and I would go crazy. She found that the surprise attack was most effective on me, and she took every advantage she could. She even stood behind my head, let me reach up and hold her butt, while she tickled both pits simultaneously. Of course, I could only maintain the hold on her butt for a few seconds. At some point she was tickling my foot and my ribs simultaneously by stretching her arms out wide.
She tickled me for a good twenty minutes, which some people can tell you is about my limit anyway. After I got dressed, she asked me if I was “all right?” I guess she wasn’t sure she didn’t take the tickling too far. I told her I was way all right, never better. I gave her a good tip, and then said good-bye.
I tried looking up “tickling” in the yellow pages which granted, was a little silly, but I just had to rule out the possibility. Then I looked under “massage” and there was at least two pages of listings.
Discounting all of the esoteric and cultural forms of massage like Swiss, Shiatsu, Korean, whatever; there are basically two types of establishments that provide massage:
Type one: Those that offer genuine therapeutic massage. They are often associated with beauty salons such as Beaux Visages or Just Nails. Others are liscenced to practice massage out of their own home. You’ll get a really nice relaxing massage while listening to some soft, almost hypnotic seashore music.
Type two: Those that offer sensual massage as a prelude to soft-core sex. Often there is a sauna or steam cabinet before the massage. Then the massage comes, which is usually pretty good, but not as thorough as the type one masseuses. Once the massage is done, she asks if there is anything else she can do for you, with a smile and a wink. Next thing you know, she’s chokin the one-eyed viper.
So I’m pouring through the listings in the yellow pages, which had both types. You can pretty much tell which type they are by the thrust of their advertising. The type one’s will talk about how relaxed and healthy you’ll feel, and will often mention their credentials. The type two’s usually specify an all female staff and late hours, and will often offer the option of coming to your hotel room.
I finally decided on a place called Stacy’s Massage. I couldn’t tell which type it was, and something kind of in between would suit me just fine. When I walked in the place and got one look at the receptionist, I thought “definitely type two.” She had that slutty goth look to her, black hair and a black dress with no stockings, and absolutely no tan whatsoever. After paying for the massage, I was led back to a private room with a professional massage table by a pleasantly attractive African American girl with a slightly oversized bottom, to which I found myself taking a great liking. She was dressed in plain cotton pants and a sleeveless top. Moderately attractive attire, but certainly nothing provocative. I thought “hmm…no steam or sauna…professional massage table….new age music….this all says ‘type one’ to me.”
She asked me to remove my clothing and lie face down on the massage table, covering myself with a towel. She came back in and without a word, started right into the massage, just lightly moving her hands on my back with almost no pressure. At this point, I’m thinking, “Hmm….she didn’t ask me if I had any specific area she should work on…plus, she’s using almost no pressure….gotta be ‘type two.’” But then, she started massaging in earnest, and I could tell she knew what she was doing. She expertly located areas of tension and stress and efficiently dealt with them. For a half hour, she worked on me without saying a word. I was quiet as well, leaving it up to her as to when to break the silence. She worked on my back, my ass, my thighs, and my calves. My thighs are really ticklish, but I was in such a relaxed state, I was easily able to contain the sensation.
Finally, she she breaks the silence.
“Drew?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“How do you feel?”
“Absolutely wonderful. You really know what you’re doing.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Could I get you to turn over?”
“Sure.” I turned over while she held the towel in place. That towel was still the only thing covering my privates.
She started massaging the front of my thighs and again, though it normally would have sent me into a giggling squirmfest, I was able to maintain control due to the relaxed state I was in.
“By the way,” I said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but I’m very ticklish.”
“You are?” she asked.
“Yes, but please don’t let it hinder the massage in any way. I mean, if I flinch or laugh, just keep going.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I know what to do.”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I actually like the tickling.”
“Oh, okay,” she said, a little confused.
“Yeah, I used to get all my girlfriends to sit on my ankles and tickle my feet like crazy.”
She gave me a quick glance, to see if I was pulling her leg. Five minutes later, she’s massaging my feet, and the level of tickling is well within my boundaries of tolerance.
“You’re not ticklish,” she said presently. “I thought you said you were ticklish.”
“I am,” I said. “I’m just real good at holding it in.”
She smiled, and began massaging the other foot. “Does this tickle?” she asked.
“Yes, it does,” I said. “And it feels great.”
A moment later she goes back to the first foot, and to my surprise and delight, she began lightly scratching her nails in the area just under the toes. She was no longer just massaging, but deliberately tickling my foot. It was at least twice as intense as before, and I began laughing quietly.
“You know, it would probably work better if you held down my ankle with your free hand,” I told her.
She did that very thing. She held down my ankle so I couldn’t move it as easily, and continued tickling my right foot. I laughed, but still in that quiet whispery way, while my face contorted somewhat in a mild grimace of torture. Her nails were kind of long, but not too long. She went in between each two and tickled. I was beside myself with tortured mirth. “Drew, you crazy!” she said with a laugh, and began tickling the other foot in the same way. It was just awesome, and I got the idea that she was enjoying it herself.
After tickling my feet for ten minutes or so, she moved up to my ribs and armpits, at my suggestion. At first it didn’t tickle, because that area was still receptive to her touch. But before long, she located a few extrasensitive points and exploited them. After that, my defenses were shot. Everywhere on my torso she tickled me, I erupted in uncontrollable laughter and squirming. I tried my best to hold still, because all I had covering me was a towel laying across my groin.
“This is too funny,” she said. “Nobody’s ever asked me for this before.” She took my hand, and walk up, pulling my arm over my head. Then she’d attack the pit and ribs, and I would go crazy. She found that the surprise attack was most effective on me, and she took every advantage she could. She even stood behind my head, let me reach up and hold her butt, while she tickled both pits simultaneously. Of course, I could only maintain the hold on her butt for a few seconds. At some point she was tickling my foot and my ribs simultaneously by stretching her arms out wide.
She tickled me for a good twenty minutes, which some people can tell you is about my limit anyway. After I got dressed, she asked me if I was “all right?” I guess she wasn’t sure she didn’t take the tickling too far. I told her I was way all right, never better. I gave her a good tip, and then said good-bye.
