Ellen’s Yoga Tickle Party, Part 1
The town where Ellen lives with her partner Debra (not Deb, and definitely not Debbie) is an old artist's-colony-turned-tourist-magnet tucked into the wooded hills of middle America. Laura and I got there late in the morning after a long drive through a series of increasingly gorgeous country winterscapes, and checked in at a nice little B&B full of curated charm just down the road from where Waze told us we'd find Ellen's place.
We poked around town for a couple of hours, browsing a bookstore, grabbing lunch at a bakery, and nosing through shops full of knick-knacks. It was cold but sunny and nice, and we shared the shops and sidewalks with a smattering of other bundled up shoppers. The locals running the shops were open and friendly, maybe even more genuinely so than usual owing to the sparse off-season crowds.
Laura made fast friends with the bookstore owner, a slim, pretty hippie with wavy gray hair, plenty of tats and bracelets, and a sexy contagious grin. We also chatted up the woman who ran the bakery as we finished our meal there. She was cheerfully boisterous and farmgirl fit, with a goofy sense of humor and a loud, easy laugh.
Overall it seemed like a pretty cool place.
At the appointed time we hopped back into the truck and drove up the hill to Ellen's. The short excursion took us away from the rows of shops and into an adjacent neighborhood, leading us up to a long driveway in front of a large and stately-looking brick Tudor style home. It sat on a spacious lot ringed with pine trees, and looked tastefully expensive.
Ellen and Debra seemed to be doing very well for themselves.
As we left the truck and made our way up the neatly shoveled walk, my heavy mobile session bag bouncing off my hip, I recalled what Ellen had told me about her partner Debra. "She's a lovely person," Ellen had warned. "Deep down. But she's a little aloof and formal, and the 'further out' you seem, the longer it might take you to find the lovely part of her."
Considering that the reason we were here was pretty 'far out,' I'd been told to expect a frosty reception.
I had met Ellen several months earlier at a party thrown by my friend M. It was a regular get-together for M's "Support Group," a collection of women who had met early in their professional careers and kept in touch over the years. At this particular party, I had been invited to put on a bondage demonstration.
Quick history. I had met and dated M decades ago, and we'd kept in touch as friends. We shared an interest in bondage, and after a recent divorce she had agreed to try shooting a couple of tickle clips with me. She was a great model, and eventually confessed the experience to her Support Group friends in a tipsy book club discussion of kinky things they'd tried.
This of course opened her up to merciless teasing, which led her to pose a challenge that their next group gathering take on an edgier theme.
Long story short, weeks later I found myself at M's lake house instructing a group of retired lady executives on the finer points of rope work and hogties, with some tickling games thrown in for fun and motivation. That true story is posted
here.
Ellen, with her open-minded "try anything" attitude, had been a huge part of M's party's success. That same evening, she had raised the idea of hosting a party of her own for her local yoga group, and upon returning home she had followed up.
Her yoga instructor had been intrigued but skittish about the idea of hosting a bondage party at her small town studio. So Ellen, after much lobbying of her partner Debra to lighten up and live a little, had arranged the event at her house.
And here we were.
The yoga instructor, by the way, was planning to attend.
We had barely stepped onto Ellen's porch before she burst through the front door in a smiling whirlwind of hugs and hellos. She had met Laura as well at M's Support Group party, and we had all kept in touch with various chats and planning calls leading up to tonight's festivities.
"Come in, come in, it's freezing out here!" she said, although it wasn't really. But with zero excess fat on her trim frame, Ellen may have felt the cold more than most. She is a sprightly, elfin powerhouse of a 62-year-old with lush gray hair whose looks and energy must still turn the heads of men and women half her age.
"We've cleared out the great room," she announced as Laura and I kicked off our shoes in the foyer. "And I was just digging the massage table out of the junk room when you two rolled up."
We had already choreographed the coming evening's flow for the five couples who were expected to attend aside from Laura and myself. Ellen’s place has a massive great room with a fireplace and enclosed back porch, and as stated she had started the setup process by pushing all the furniture to the walls to open up its floor space.
We would start with a hogtie demonstration where each couple would be provided a "gift bag" with the necessary pre-cut ropes, color coded with loops of tape, as well as a little vibrating wand devices provided by another friend from the Support Group party, Lisa the Passion Party hostess. After the hogties would come a "tickle therapy" session hosted by Laura on the aforementioned massage table.
Apparently the yoga instructor was particularly intrigued by the idea of tickle therapy.
Finally we would have a fundraiser, with money to be donated to a local women's shelter for every minute any volunteer could endure a foot tickling in the tickle box, which was currently taking up most of the space in my go bag.
The great room was indeed huge, and we set about distributing gift bags around on the hardwood floor where couples might set up their yoga mats. We decided the massage table for Laura's tickle therapy demo should go near the fireplace, where a blaze was already crackling away and pushing out some pleasant warmth. I offered to set up the table while Ellen and Laura caught up on the porch, and Ellen told me where to find it.
It was on that brief excursion, while wrestling a folded massage table back down the hallway from the junk room, that I first met Debra.
When you see Debra, she immediately brings to mind one of those painted portraits that always seem to hang over mantles at old English manor homes. She is tall and regal, easily approaching six feet. Her long blonde hair, going tastefully white, is swept back from a face that is narrow and drawn but attractive, leaving an impression of Meryl Streep with a hint of Lisa Kudrow's attractively fading jawline.
She was wearing a cream and blue outfit of loose silk that complemented her angular frame. Not heavy but not obviously athletic, her overall aspect was comfortable and pampered, down to the ballerina flats covering her feet.
"Ah, well hello!" I said, a little surprised as she stepped from a side hallway in front of me. "You must be Debra."
The look she gave me is hard to describe. Peering over the tops of her Prada frames, her eyebrows arched microscopically as she gave me a once-over, head to toe. I felt a bit like a car she might consider buying if she could get past its iffy background on the Carfax report. There was a measure of caution in that look, and maybe a little disdain, although an inner voice told me it might be only for show.
"Hm," she said, and turned toward the kitchen to join the ladies.
Nice to meet you too, Debra.
To be continued…
