#tickle interrogation

Because I don't think you realize how often I think about it. Who would? What normal person would sit here and ponder ways to pick you apart? What normal person would sit here and wonder just how much tickling it would take to hear you whisper, "...please."

Thorough. That's the best word I can think of to describe it. What you would feel. I have to be sure. Ticklishness can not be ignored. Nor can it be taken for granted. So when I say "thorough," I mean it.

I mean every line along your ribs has to be inspected. Every curve of your underarms has to be traced. Every wrinkle on your soles, every space between your toes, every freckle on your belly, ever hair on your neck. All of you.

No matter the words coming out of your mouth, I'll know the truth by watching your face. Your lips may lie. Your eyes don't. Your body can't.

It must be quite jarring to realize people like me are here. Watching. Thinking. Plotting. Of all the places my energy could be focused, of all the tasks to which I could apply myself, and of all the pursuits I could follow, I have simply chosen...to tickle you.

That’s why you really should never totally relax around me. That lazily claimed position you’re in? Laying there on your belly, reading your little book without a care in the world? It’s nearly too simple. And it takes such a turn when you feel my weight settle onto you. Amazing how quickly you can go from care free to trapped, isn’t it? Did you even see me coming?

The initial struggles are adorable, but once you heard me whisper, “Oh, this is going to be fun,” I think my intentions hit you all at once. Those struggles grew stronger. The protests began. You even tried to crawl away. That all stopped when my fingers began crawling up your sides.

I’ve never seen anyone curl up like that before. So quick. So forceful. So giggly. Unfortunately for you it did little to dissuade my fingers from continuing their exploration. A slow advance from the hips, up the sides, counting the ribs, and just the briefest pause before continuing their conquest to your underarms. Such a vulnerable position to be in, isn’t in. You can lower your arms and my fingers become trapped to continue their scribbling. You can extend them and make yourself all the more exposed. Which will it be? Which makes you laugh the loudest? Let’s find out.

I bet you didn’t realize how entertaining you can be when you’re frantic. The noises. The struggling. The pounding of your fists trying to endure whatever sensations my own fingers are forcing your brain to acknowledge. Cinema. I’m just exploring now. What works? What doesn’t? Is your neck ticklish? Behind your knees? Between your shoulder blades? We have all evening to find out.

You know what I mean. She could have gotten there in a variety of ways. Maybe she was snooping around a place she wasn't supposed to be. Maybe she threatened to tell one of your secrets. Maybe she has something you want or knows something you need to know. Maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It could have been any of those things. The why isn't very important to her anymore. At this point, she's just trying to figure out how to make it stop. That's the thing about damsels. They're all tough. They're all smart. And, in spite of that bold exterior, they're all ticklish.

I have no doubt she'll hold out as long as she can. She won't be able to hold back the laughter. Or the squeals. Maybe even the screams. But she won't give in quickly. That's another thing about damsels. They go crazy when their feet are tickled or when their underarms are explored or when their sides are squeezed, but amidst the laughter you'll hear a, "I'll never talk" in a tone more defiant than you ever thought possible.

As the hours pass and your earlier threat of "No one is coming to save you" begins to really sink in, the cracks in the armor really begin to show. The laughs are harder. The yelps are louder. The look in her eyes...desperate. And yet she still won't talk.

I wonder about such things quite frequently. Are they still out there? Waiting to be questioned. Waiting to be toyed with. Waiting for that masked man to whisper, "I have ways of making you talk," as the blindfold slips on and the gravity of her situation washes over her just like the sensations suddenly flowing along her soles.

It's totally innocent. We're just friends. Yet those three words cause a shift in the room.

"Are you ticklish?"

No one asks that without demanding proof of the answer. You could say anything. Shake your head. Narrow your eyes. My response would be the same.

"Show me."

In most scenarios I see you backing yourself up against the wall or, even better, into a corner. I pride myself on being a good conversationalist, but in this case those three words would suffice.

"Are you ticklish?"

I only needed to ask once, but it's fun watching your face change as I repeat the question. Only this time, I repeat the question while stepping closer. And closer. Feels like the room is shrinking, doesn't it?

What is it about those words that changes things? Why does it feel different? What is it about those words that allows the trust to remain while also feeling a bit betrayed?

Tomorrow we will carry on as we always have. Friends. We may even joke about this. You may playfully accuse me of being a monster. You may keep a closer eye on me. But that's tomorrow. Tonight, I just have to know. I have to find out. And if you won't tell me, I have ways of making you talk.

That’s the thing about seeing the ticklish side of everyone. I don’t need motivation. Or a reason. Or incentive. I just need a moment.

And that is all it takes. One moment. One moment alone and an arm slips around your waist and you hear, “Come here” growled into your ear before you realize that squeezing on your hips isn’t stopping. Suddenly you’re dragged to the couch. Ribs. Underarms. So much more vulnerable than you expected. I didn’t expect to see your eyes go that wide when I began focusing on your belly, but now that I know what that can do to you I think I’ll dedicate some time there.

I imagine you’ll put up a decent fight, but not enough to prevent me from sitting on your ankles and telling you what I plan to do to you as those socks are pulled away. The next few hours are ours. I don’t foresee any interruptions.

Like I told you. Your options are limited. I may very well deal with the consequences of this later, but right now all I’m thinking about is the sensation of you struggling and the sound of those muffled shrieks. I know this wasn’t what you planned on when you came over. But, really…

Being in public with me is always a gamble. Especially for you. You can’t just walk around as ticklish as you are and not expect it. I don’t even have to lay a finger on you. And it doesn’t take much. A look. A smirk. A whispered promise. Or was it a threat?

I doubt they know. People tend to be focused on themselves and their own problems or tasks. Even if one of them noticed you blushing, what conclusions could they possibly draw? Would they dare make the leap to consider the possibility I had just whispered the words, “Tonight, it will be your underarms” into your ear as we walked? Could they even fathom the reality of someone like me staring at you from across the table, slowly tracing my fingertips in slow circles and figure eights across the tabletop and watching your eyes grow wider as you realize those motions are meant for you. No one else catches it. How could they?

I could tell the world. But what benefit would that be to me? This way I get to watch. I get to watch your cheeks grow redder. Your eyes grow wider. Your nerves grow more and more on edge as the clock ticks unceasingly toward the time when it will be more than a look. Or a smirk. Or a threat. With every tick of the clock, our world contracts. Fewer people surround us. Fewer eyes watch. Distractions vanish. And those playful looks from earlier become direct, fiery stares.

And that is exactly what this is. Music.

With every stroke, you add a new note. Sometimes a laugh. Sometimes a giggle. A shriek. A scream. A plea. A gasp. With every move my fingers make you add to the composition. And this is why I can’t stop. I have to hear what comes next. So my hands move faster. Fingers wriggle harder. Ribs are counted. Underarms are swirled with fingertips. Hips squeezed. Bellybutton circled. Toes kneaded. Arches scratched. With every spot, the melody changes. With every method, the intensity varies.

Do not hold back. True art is not for the timid. This work will not be genuine if you stifle even one giggle. I want to hear what music you can make. I want to hear every note flow from you from the second I begin playing with your toes to the moment I stop whispering teasing threats into your ear. I want to hear you belt out what comes naturally and let those reactions take their place in what is truly a work to be admired.

Music speaks to me. I relish a clever refrain. I live for a powerful crescendo. I can pass endless time letting beautiful sounds carry me to untold places.

Sounds cliché. Yet true. Nothing comes easy. Luckily, I am far from lazy. And I know what I want.

That's why I didn't give up when you started backing away. It's why my resolve didn't waiver when you whispered out that shaky, "Don't you dare." And it's why I continue to inch forward as your eyes widen and that mad little scramble begins.

I'll chase you. Through the rooms. Up and down the stairs. Knowing you feel that sense of imminent capture, that knot of anticipation, and that mix of fear, excitement, anticipation, and craving building with every step. Hearing me shout those taunts as I close in can't be calming. The "I'm gonna get you" and "You are going to laugh harder than you've ever laughed before" may quicken your steps temporarily, but we both know how this ends.

If logic had any place here, you'd save your energy. Save your breath. Save your voice. Just give in. But no. You still run. And I still chase. And in the end, backed into a corner, breathless, wide eyed, and giggles already spilling out, the last words you hear before your own laughter fills the room...

"Got you..."