All I know is...
One of my earliest memories is a tickle memory. I was very young, and my Dad got home from work late, but just in time to say goodnight. He was holding me on his hip and started tickling me on the ribs. I was laughing so hard, I could barely catch my breath. Mom said, "careful, keep that up and she'll wet her pants"...so I did. So much for Dad's suit.
I had two older brothers that tortured me any way they could think of, and tickling my feet and ribs was one way. My parents divorced and Mom remarried, and all of a sudden, I had 4 big brothers! Multiply the torture by 2!
I guess Mom thought I needed a break and sent me to spend the summer with my aunt and uncle half-way across the country. Well, I spent that summer with 3 older cousins. They were all awful, but my older girl cousin was the worst. She used to have her brothers hold me down and she would tickle me all over.
I tried to lock my door, but they would pop the lock late at night and come into my room and torture me for hours. It was so tough to take that I developed the ability to "go someplace else" while they were tickling me. I would imagine that it was someone else they were tickling, and that convinced me that I wasn't ticklish anymore...Right!
In school, I got in trouble for hitting a friend of mine in the face. It wasn't my fault, she came up behind me and poked me in the ribs while I was putting something on the bulletin board (arms up, ribs unprotected). I turned around as I was bringing my arms down to protect my ribs, and her nose just happened to be there. Sorry!
That was enough for me to squash my ticklishness for many years...that is until I met Spotmanc. He was able to reawaken my ticklishness and reconnect me with the sensuous side of myself that is particularly vulnerable to tickling. Every time he tickles me, it seems as though he finds more nerve endings to wake up.
Today, tickling feeds me...it makes me feel alive and connected, and I hope that it continues to grow! I have to tell you that my experiences at NEST have fed me, too. I cannot express how it feels to be among people who not only accept you for you, but revel in what makes you be you.
Of course, that's not to say that they are all nicey-nice, but, although I can't say "yes, I love to be tortured," I can say, "please, don't let my life ever be without torture, again."
