I'd have to say that the attractiveness of the woman and the attractiveness of her feet are, for me at least, secondary to her reaction to being tickled. I shall provide some examples from my excursions to my local gentlemen's club to illustrate.
1. "Ruby" (neither her real name nor her real stage name) was quite literally my vision of the the ideal in feminine beauty come to life: Long, curly red hair that cascaded over her shoulders, shining blue-green eyes, about 5'-10" tall without heels, pale skin with a dusting of freckles, a soft musical voice, and her feet were sculpted from smooth curves. She loved it when I gave her a foot rub, and once or thrice I gave her sole a quick tickle. There was an instant of wondrously melodious giggling, but as she yanked her foot away she made it clear that she didn't like that at all. I liked and respected her too much to do something to her that she so clearly disliked, so I resisted the urge as much as I could from then on, and felt guilty when I gave in. In this instance, it wasn't fun to tickle the most beautiful woman I had ever met because she reacted so negatively towards it.
2. "Gilly the Perky Goth" was also in the 5'-10" to 5'-11" range, with smooth alabaster skin over a trim, well muscled form (cut, but not ripped, if you can picture that), with brown eyes full of intelligence and personality, an adorable litte turned-up nose that crinkled when she smiled, and a severe black pageboy haircut that made her look as if she had just walked out of a 1920s Art Deco print by Erte'. She actually wasn't ticklish, but she loved the sensation of being tickled and appreciated it as a massage technique. I recall giving her a backrub once, and my fingertips grazed her sides with a light touch. She grinned and raised her arms above her head, inviting me to tickle her ribs and underarms. I cheerfully carried out the lady's request, and while she didn't laugh in the traditional ticklish reaction, she did giggle softly with contentment the whole time. Later, we had a tickle fight, rolling about on the couch having at one another's sides, stomachs, ribs and underarms. I was surprised to hear her laughing out loud, and said between gasps for air that "I thought you weren't ticklish?" "I'm not," she replied, "I'm just having so much fun!" When it was over, we lay there catching our breath, and she looked down from where she still sat straddling me, smiled softly, and kissed me on the lips. As you can guess, this was a much better experience than with "Ruby," primarily because "Gilly" enjoyed it so much. The only thing that would have improved it would have been if she had a traditional ticklish reaction, but this is one of my favorite memories as it stands.
3. "Kelly" is not the type to immediately grab my attention the same way that "Ruby" and "Gilly" did: Dyed blond hair with the roots showing their original darker color, eyes kept half-closed in an expression that may be meant to be seductive but just comes across as sleep-deprived, usually wearing a tired expression but when she smiles one can tell she would benefit from a little orthodontic work, about 5'-7" tall, and she often wears boots because her terribly flat feet find the uniform high-heeled sandals too painful. By no means unattractive, but just a bit average in comparison to the two others I've mentioned. Yet, I've had more fun tickling her than I had with "Ruby" or "Roxie" (another girl who looks like a 6' tall Jenny McCarthy and seems to love tickling and being tickled, yet frightens me with her erratic, possibly drug-induced behavior). "Kelly" is a new employee at the club, but she's rapidly become disillusioned with the exhausting job. I gave her a foot rub to ease her discomfort, and she lay back grinning almost as if she were about to drift off into a peaceful dream. "I'm surprised," she said as I massaged the area under her toes, "Normally I'm so ticklish." "Oh, really?" "Yeah, they make fun of me when I go get a pedicure because every time they touch my feet I ..." I never found out what she did, because I had begun lightly scrathing the ball of her foot, and she clutched her sides and laughed without restraint. "I'm gonna pee myself!" she warned between sputtering gasps. "It's too late to put a dropcloth down now," I replied as I continued tickling the baby's-butt-soft skin of her soles. She placed her sole flat against my thigh, trying to protect it. "I'll be okay as long as you don't get me there," Kelly giggled as my fingers continued to scrabble all over her toes, instep and ankle like ants probing for a weak point in the beetle's shell. I decided to show her the error of complacency by abandoning the attack on her foot and starting to tickle her ribs instead, leading her to laugh just as hard as when I began. When it was over, she massaged her cheeks, still giggling that "My face aches from laughing so hard!", and then she gave me several deep warm hugs on the way out in gratitude for cheering her up so. While "Kelly" may not have been my first choice to model for a portrait of Venus, she was a sheer delight to tickle because she reacted in such an endearing way.
