Wade1
3rd Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Dec 27, 2003
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So I was out to lunch with three coworkers. One of them was Jennifer, who some months earlier had discovered to her delight that I was ticklish. Her new favorite hobby in the office, thereafter, was to come up behind me as I was sitting at my desk and start running her fingers up and down my sides, relishing her capacity to make me thrash around helplesssly for as long as she wanted--usually not more than several seconds.
I didn't sit next to Jennifer.
Instead, I was seated cross the table from her. Between two other coworker friends in the restaurant booth. And both of them were named Amy. Amy #1 was cute and willowy with a tousled mop of reddish-brown curls on her head and long slender tapered fingers; her arms were similarly slender, and only just noticeably adorned with a brownish down that irked her. Amy #2 was more compact and athletically built, more of a Katie Couric body type, with a pragmatic brown pageboy haircut and nicely muscled, shapely arms and hands.
I mention I was between them?
We were perusing the menus, in the process of deciding on getting what we always got, while the Amys jovially complained about a prank I'd played with one of their email accounts--sending a snarky message from one of them to the other, maybe; I can't even remember now. Amy #2 said "We have to get you back, Wade."
Which is when Jennifer across the table said, to my profound regret, "You know he's really ticklish."
I feigned deep interest in my menu, trying to let it pass, trying to ignore the way each Amy was staring at me with delighted flashing eyes and a grinning mouth hanging open in eager disbelief. Finally Amy #1 said "Wade? Is that true?"
"She doesn't know what she's talking about," I said, but my credibility was diminished significantly by the way the second syllable of "about" was goosed up into a higher register by the sensation of Amy #1's fingers grazing my side in a gently mischievous pincer-motion.
"Oh my God," Amy #1 said as Amy #2 started to rain a merciless series of finger-pokes on my left side, noting the way that each moment of contact sent me into another involuntary convulsion.
Last thing I noticed before my eyes squeezed helplessly shut was Jennifer across the table smiling like she'd just gotten the best present on earth. Then my world was reduced to the sensations of my sides as Amy #1's fingers danced and trickled playfully across my stomach and up my ribs and Amy #2's attacked more aggressively, poking and tweaking with malicious abandon. I was, needless to say, giggling wildly at this point, twisting and squirming, a puppet under their touches, cursing the birth of whoever invented the restaurant booth.
I would have given anything to be able to stop laughing; as long as I laughed, they would tickle, and as long as their fingers snaked in at my ribs and sides and stomach I couldn't possibly stop laughing. Then Amy #2 gripped my left armpit and made me jump and yelp; the merriment at the table only increased.
They were laughing almost as hard as I was, and then they abruptly stopped; I looked up, panting slightly, to see the waitress standing there expectantly with her notepad, a hand on her hip. I felt my face flush hot, but I was grateful for the distraction; once the food was ordered, certainly this little activity would give way to something less intolerable.
Then the waitress said "Don't stop on my account!"
The Amys laughed--and Jennifer laughed too, a little too hard--as they resumed the onslaught of my sides and abdomen. I crossed my arms haplessly but there's nothing you can do against two coordinated ticklers; there's barely anything you can do against one. I'd dissolved into full-throated laughter by the time Amy #2 said "Okay, but seriously, I'm hungry," and we could move on to the comparably civilized business of sandwiches.
The rest of the lunch moved on to less hysterical interactions. It wasn't until the end, when the waitress returned and asked if she could get anyone anything else, that she trained her gaze on me and said, "Anything else for Mr. Tickles?"
Jennifer laughed again and Amy #1 drew a series of devastatingly ticklish lines across my belly as I stuttered "N-no thanks."
"He's ticklish," Jennifer explained to the waitress.
"Mm," the waitress said with an uncanny deadpan. "I wasn't sure."
Moral of the story: freestanding tables are good.
I didn't sit next to Jennifer.
Instead, I was seated cross the table from her. Between two other coworker friends in the restaurant booth. And both of them were named Amy. Amy #1 was cute and willowy with a tousled mop of reddish-brown curls on her head and long slender tapered fingers; her arms were similarly slender, and only just noticeably adorned with a brownish down that irked her. Amy #2 was more compact and athletically built, more of a Katie Couric body type, with a pragmatic brown pageboy haircut and nicely muscled, shapely arms and hands.
I mention I was between them?
We were perusing the menus, in the process of deciding on getting what we always got, while the Amys jovially complained about a prank I'd played with one of their email accounts--sending a snarky message from one of them to the other, maybe; I can't even remember now. Amy #2 said "We have to get you back, Wade."
Which is when Jennifer across the table said, to my profound regret, "You know he's really ticklish."
I feigned deep interest in my menu, trying to let it pass, trying to ignore the way each Amy was staring at me with delighted flashing eyes and a grinning mouth hanging open in eager disbelief. Finally Amy #1 said "Wade? Is that true?"
"She doesn't know what she's talking about," I said, but my credibility was diminished significantly by the way the second syllable of "about" was goosed up into a higher register by the sensation of Amy #1's fingers grazing my side in a gently mischievous pincer-motion.
"Oh my God," Amy #1 said as Amy #2 started to rain a merciless series of finger-pokes on my left side, noting the way that each moment of contact sent me into another involuntary convulsion.
Last thing I noticed before my eyes squeezed helplessly shut was Jennifer across the table smiling like she'd just gotten the best present on earth. Then my world was reduced to the sensations of my sides as Amy #1's fingers danced and trickled playfully across my stomach and up my ribs and Amy #2's attacked more aggressively, poking and tweaking with malicious abandon. I was, needless to say, giggling wildly at this point, twisting and squirming, a puppet under their touches, cursing the birth of whoever invented the restaurant booth.
I would have given anything to be able to stop laughing; as long as I laughed, they would tickle, and as long as their fingers snaked in at my ribs and sides and stomach I couldn't possibly stop laughing. Then Amy #2 gripped my left armpit and made me jump and yelp; the merriment at the table only increased.
They were laughing almost as hard as I was, and then they abruptly stopped; I looked up, panting slightly, to see the waitress standing there expectantly with her notepad, a hand on her hip. I felt my face flush hot, but I was grateful for the distraction; once the food was ordered, certainly this little activity would give way to something less intolerable.
Then the waitress said "Don't stop on my account!"
The Amys laughed--and Jennifer laughed too, a little too hard--as they resumed the onslaught of my sides and abdomen. I crossed my arms haplessly but there's nothing you can do against two coordinated ticklers; there's barely anything you can do against one. I'd dissolved into full-throated laughter by the time Amy #2 said "Okay, but seriously, I'm hungry," and we could move on to the comparably civilized business of sandwiches.
The rest of the lunch moved on to less hysterical interactions. It wasn't until the end, when the waitress returned and asked if she could get anyone anything else, that she trained her gaze on me and said, "Anything else for Mr. Tickles?"
Jennifer laughed again and Amy #1 drew a series of devastatingly ticklish lines across my belly as I stuttered "N-no thanks."
"He's ticklish," Jennifer explained to the waitress.
"Mm," the waitress said with an uncanny deadpan. "I wasn't sure."
Moral of the story: freestanding tables are good.
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