Solesbrusher
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I'd been spending one year as a french language assistant at University College in London, where I had to prepare students for the presentation each of them was supposed to make in french language, and on any topic they wanted, for one of their Degree exams. I was then 24 and, being a novice in teaching and also being unaware of the english marking system, I used to be too strict, considering a 65% a good mark, whereas a 80% would have been more appropriate. This mistake had happened to create some tenseness in the relationships I had with my classes but these relationships though remained globally good and trustful. However, I knew from French relatives in London, whom some of my undergraduates were acquainted with, many of them kept on finding me somehow arrogant and self-confident (like French people in general).
Therefore, I was rather surprised when some of them (the twelve from the wednesday 11am group) decided to give a party for me, just before I went back to France in april. The party was due to be given two days before me leaving, in one of my students' parents' victorian house on Hampstead Heath. This student, called Susanna, was a fiery big redhead, punk-style and domme-like, girl with piercing blue eyes. As funny as cynical during my lessons, she regularly triggered off (often relevant) debates and controversies about the differences between french and english cultures, whatever topic came to her mind.
For instance, as we once talked about french films, she'd started making sarcastic comments about one of the films she'd watched on TV while working as an assistant in a french highschool the year before.
The film, called François Ier, whose action mainly took place in the 16th century, starred a famous comic actor, Fernandel. who, at a moment, was kidnapped, taken to a torture dungeon in an old castle's subways, tied up on a rack by hooded tormenters, and there had his bare soles smeared with grine and then licked by a goat, in order to make him reveal a secret he held (the actor, who sweats and screams all through the scene, later confessed that this sequence, which had needed 41 shootings, had been an unbearable torture to him : have a look at the attached link :
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x390dm_supplice-de-la-chevre-fernandel-fra_shortfilms).
So, Susanna, my provocative student, had once referred to this film, which she considered a perfect example of all the stupid things French people use to find hilarious. I later understood she'd also caught the opportunity this reference offered her to bring the conversation upon the subject of tickling. I can remember the words she'd pronounced in a taunting, spiteful voice : "However, though I find such a sequence quite ridiculous, it still makes French guys appear less cartesian, less strict to me, more human, in a word, for it feeds, in a veeery convincing and veeery instructive way, all what's rumoured about French guys being extremely ticklish."
This remark had immediately provoked her mates' embarrassed laughter, but I probably was the one who felt the most embarrassed at the moment, for I felt unveiled, unmasked : watching the film François Ier when I was eight had been the trigger of my own tickle fetish, and I'd never stopped being obsessed with the idea of tickling or getting tickled since then. How did this clever little bitch had guessed how much she could make me feel uncomfortable by speaking of it during one of my lessons? Did she even know she did? What happened later tends to proove she'd chiefly tried to know more about me.
Anyway, instead of bringing the conversation back to the previous topic, I'd fallen into the trap - maybe not so unwillingly as I used to pretend - by commenting on her remark : "Well, Susanna, you seem to know much about French guys' ticklishness, don't you? But tell me : what allows you to assert such things?" Then she'd answered, still in a taunting way : "I had a French boyfriend in Nice, last year, who was ridiculously ticklish. I reaaally loved to tickle him allover, to sit down on his waist and poke his ribs, to sit down on his ankles and scrape the soles of his feet, which he hated the most. Ooonly a few seconds were needed to drive the poor boy nuts. And, referring to his own words, most of his mates reacted the same way to tickling. Then, intrigued by such a childish ticklishness, I talked to my female French relatives about it, who weren't stonished at all, but revealed their own boyfriends also were very sensitive to tickling. That's why I consider the sequence from François Ier a good illustration of cartesian French guys' touching childish side."
Then, I'd let her know I didn't think her demonstration was built on a very solid ground : she hadn't brought a fair amount of testimonies together ; there was no reason for "French guys" to be more ticklish than English ones. And I'd added I also thought all what she'd tried to do was to feed a futile controversy in order to make French people appear ridiculous. But my remark hadn't disheartened her at all : "Ooo, I guess what you mean. You may find me not very convincing, because you are not ticklish and then you think no other French man can be. You're not ticklish, are you?" Such an intrusive question had reduced the attendance to silence : the students looked at each other with an increasing embarrassment, while I felt my cheeks blush and my heart beat faster. However, as I was too proud to quit, I'd resigned myself to an answer, which I'd given in a pseudo- confident and, in fact, stammering way :
— Well... You're mistaking... If you really wanna know about it, yes, I'm ticklish... I'm very ticklish... and I've always been. But I still don't think this additonal example makes you right : you're wrong, for you're quickly generalizing your observations!
— Hey, you're joking, if I can afford : don't tell me such a serious professor is ticklish... on his feet, for instance. What about super-ego?
— I'm not joking, Susanna. I'm extremely ticklish, especially on my feet. But tell me : what does super-ego make here? Isn't tickling one of human body and mind most strange enigmas, instead of being French guys' specialty?
— Well, you're definitely an astonishing person.... I couldn't have guessed such a confession. Sorry for being this intrusive : I didn't intend to... Though, this might not be a proof of what I claimed, but this still brings one more veeery interesting -and charming- example.
— You're welcome. Now I think this digression should be closed : French guys' ticklishness certainly isn't this lesson's topic.
— Right, professor. I do apologize for making the discussion wander so far from french cinema.
— You're welcome.
I'd remained in deep trouble for the rest of the lesson, but had tried to hide it, feeling as embarrassed with this bold intrusion in my inner world as aroused by it. Though, I couldn't have guessed which ordeal such an incident confession - in fact, very cleverly extracted from me - was going to lead me to. Then I spent several moments, especially at night, fantasizing about the domme-like Susanna tying my naked body up to a bed, making me beg and surrender by running her long black-painted fingernails up and down the soles of my feet, up and down my underarms, up and down my ribcage, taunting and humiliating the arrogant french language assistant. But I soon tried to inhibite these thoughts, in order to feel more comfortable at UCL. Anyway, at the moment, I couldn't imagine such fantasies could come true : I was mistaking.
To be continued.
Therefore, I was rather surprised when some of them (the twelve from the wednesday 11am group) decided to give a party for me, just before I went back to France in april. The party was due to be given two days before me leaving, in one of my students' parents' victorian house on Hampstead Heath. This student, called Susanna, was a fiery big redhead, punk-style and domme-like, girl with piercing blue eyes. As funny as cynical during my lessons, she regularly triggered off (often relevant) debates and controversies about the differences between french and english cultures, whatever topic came to her mind.
For instance, as we once talked about french films, she'd started making sarcastic comments about one of the films she'd watched on TV while working as an assistant in a french highschool the year before.
The film, called François Ier, whose action mainly took place in the 16th century, starred a famous comic actor, Fernandel. who, at a moment, was kidnapped, taken to a torture dungeon in an old castle's subways, tied up on a rack by hooded tormenters, and there had his bare soles smeared with grine and then licked by a goat, in order to make him reveal a secret he held (the actor, who sweats and screams all through the scene, later confessed that this sequence, which had needed 41 shootings, had been an unbearable torture to him : have a look at the attached link :
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x390dm_supplice-de-la-chevre-fernandel-fra_shortfilms).
So, Susanna, my provocative student, had once referred to this film, which she considered a perfect example of all the stupid things French people use to find hilarious. I later understood she'd also caught the opportunity this reference offered her to bring the conversation upon the subject of tickling. I can remember the words she'd pronounced in a taunting, spiteful voice : "However, though I find such a sequence quite ridiculous, it still makes French guys appear less cartesian, less strict to me, more human, in a word, for it feeds, in a veeery convincing and veeery instructive way, all what's rumoured about French guys being extremely ticklish."
This remark had immediately provoked her mates' embarrassed laughter, but I probably was the one who felt the most embarrassed at the moment, for I felt unveiled, unmasked : watching the film François Ier when I was eight had been the trigger of my own tickle fetish, and I'd never stopped being obsessed with the idea of tickling or getting tickled since then. How did this clever little bitch had guessed how much she could make me feel uncomfortable by speaking of it during one of my lessons? Did she even know she did? What happened later tends to proove she'd chiefly tried to know more about me.
Anyway, instead of bringing the conversation back to the previous topic, I'd fallen into the trap - maybe not so unwillingly as I used to pretend - by commenting on her remark : "Well, Susanna, you seem to know much about French guys' ticklishness, don't you? But tell me : what allows you to assert such things?" Then she'd answered, still in a taunting way : "I had a French boyfriend in Nice, last year, who was ridiculously ticklish. I reaaally loved to tickle him allover, to sit down on his waist and poke his ribs, to sit down on his ankles and scrape the soles of his feet, which he hated the most. Ooonly a few seconds were needed to drive the poor boy nuts. And, referring to his own words, most of his mates reacted the same way to tickling. Then, intrigued by such a childish ticklishness, I talked to my female French relatives about it, who weren't stonished at all, but revealed their own boyfriends also were very sensitive to tickling. That's why I consider the sequence from François Ier a good illustration of cartesian French guys' touching childish side."
Then, I'd let her know I didn't think her demonstration was built on a very solid ground : she hadn't brought a fair amount of testimonies together ; there was no reason for "French guys" to be more ticklish than English ones. And I'd added I also thought all what she'd tried to do was to feed a futile controversy in order to make French people appear ridiculous. But my remark hadn't disheartened her at all : "Ooo, I guess what you mean. You may find me not very convincing, because you are not ticklish and then you think no other French man can be. You're not ticklish, are you?" Such an intrusive question had reduced the attendance to silence : the students looked at each other with an increasing embarrassment, while I felt my cheeks blush and my heart beat faster. However, as I was too proud to quit, I'd resigned myself to an answer, which I'd given in a pseudo- confident and, in fact, stammering way :
— Well... You're mistaking... If you really wanna know about it, yes, I'm ticklish... I'm very ticklish... and I've always been. But I still don't think this additonal example makes you right : you're wrong, for you're quickly generalizing your observations!
— Hey, you're joking, if I can afford : don't tell me such a serious professor is ticklish... on his feet, for instance. What about super-ego?
— I'm not joking, Susanna. I'm extremely ticklish, especially on my feet. But tell me : what does super-ego make here? Isn't tickling one of human body and mind most strange enigmas, instead of being French guys' specialty?
— Well, you're definitely an astonishing person.... I couldn't have guessed such a confession. Sorry for being this intrusive : I didn't intend to... Though, this might not be a proof of what I claimed, but this still brings one more veeery interesting -and charming- example.
— You're welcome. Now I think this digression should be closed : French guys' ticklishness certainly isn't this lesson's topic.
— Right, professor. I do apologize for making the discussion wander so far from french cinema.
— You're welcome.
I'd remained in deep trouble for the rest of the lesson, but had tried to hide it, feeling as embarrassed with this bold intrusion in my inner world as aroused by it. Though, I couldn't have guessed which ordeal such an incident confession - in fact, very cleverly extracted from me - was going to lead me to. Then I spent several moments, especially at night, fantasizing about the domme-like Susanna tying my naked body up to a bed, making me beg and surrender by running her long black-painted fingernails up and down the soles of my feet, up and down my underarms, up and down my ribcage, taunting and humiliating the arrogant french language assistant. But I soon tried to inhibite these thoughts, in order to feel more comfortable at UCL. Anyway, at the moment, I couldn't imagine such fantasies could come true : I was mistaking.
To be continued.
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