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We Like Feet!

Voyuerism, watching from the outside when you are not somehow directly invovled. It's all well and fine to do. Quite an enjoyable pass time, but for a set of people like us, getting involved is all the more fun and if you are the one doing the tickling it is all the better.

Now I have heard the accusations. I have heard the little voices. “Hey TB2D; what's the fascination you have with upper body tickling? WE LIKE FEET!”

I guess I'm wired for armpits, stomachs, ribs, navels and sides. Yes, most definitely sides, but I have tickled the occassional soft sole (Once, someone tickled me there too, but that's another story). I guess I only tickle the sole when I can get at it. Let's face it; no boy, particularly a boy that knows that you are probably the best tickler that they have ever meet ,is going to just roll over and let you attack their tootsies. What's that, I hear you say? Boys don't let you? Haven't you got that charisma, Tickleboy, my good man? Yeah, well, no self repecting aussie male boy or teen would admit to a weakness that could be used against them, let alone give themselves over to someone to actually be tickled (Although Ban-Garryn once wrapped two blankets and a thick sleeping bag around himself and dared me to tickle his ribs through it. What would you do? Would you say forget it? I don't think so. You wouldn't be able to refuse an invitation like that now, would you? I didn't; although that is another story).

So, with all those readers who say, “WE LIKE FEET!” I'll tell you a little tale about foot tickling that I administered to a child one day.

Once a week to a fortnight, I went down the road to visit Ban-Garryn at his place. This allowed me to escape another afternoon where I would have otherwised watched my father get pickled in front of the football. On this day, Ban-Garryn wasn't at home, but his younger brother, Fraser was. At the time, Fraser was ten and was yet to be diagnosed with food allergy induced hyperactivity (ADHS). Fraser also wanted something that he didn't frequently encounter — a person like me. This desire for having a person around like me could be for many reasons. One that was more than likely was the fact that I was such a push over and would let him get away with murder, or at least many things that his brother would not. I had this thing about not harming a child in anyway (Still do, but it has modified as I have gotten older). Maybe he just wanted an older teen male around with which he could safely interact for some psychological reason to do with his male identification process. I don't know what it was, I just know that he was glad that I had turned up that day.

Just after the Easter school holidays, there is a massive migration of people from the south traveling north and a small amount traveling from the far north. The people of the Gemfields, or as it was known to the locals — “The Gemmmies”, called this time of the year “tourist season”, or more commonly, “terroist season”. Victoria, the Southern-most mainland state of Austrailia, begins to plunge quickly into tempertures around the 2 degrees centigrade mark directly after Easter, while we in Queensland are still experiencing late summer tempurtures in the early thirties. Thus, senior citizens migrate north to hotter climes in the winter part of the year. It can't be explained, but for some reason terriotorians go South to Queensland around this time as well. It can't be because of the heat because the Northern Territory is always hotter then Queensland, but some did and some had shown up at my friends place to visit.

He was a 7 year old called Christerphan. Both of the boys were wearing skivvies (for those of you who don't know, the names of clothing change; as do the names of nations. A skivvie is a thick cotton garment worn on the torso with long sleeves and a neck that rose high on the neck to under the chin. The material of this collar is about 3 times the length of the persons neck, thus bunching up under it. A turtleneck). Both boys also wore shorts. Christerphon wore a multi-coloured ensemble with many curls of colour (like Picasso's vomit) swirling over it. The shorts were those new modern (yucky) shorts that stopped above the knee. Fraser had on a shorter pair that were sky blue with navy blue trim. Shorts like they wore in the 70's.

They managed to talk me into playing a game of table tennis. I've got fairly good reflexes, but when I am away from home I tend to lock them up, thus I was shocking at the game. Another factor that weighted in on this was that I didn't understand the rules. Fraser persisted to try to teach me although I wanted to stop playing. I was bored with it, but he wasn't going to rest until he beat me in what he called “a proper game”. Thus, I kept playing and I picked it up and started to beat him.

If Cupid is a little cherb that wields a bow and arrow; guilt is an ugly little troll with batwings and a sledge hammer. That hammer hit me in the back of the head. Fraser was a child and I was thrushing him. I was taught never to deliberately use my age as a tool to win in games that I was playing against youngsters. Take it easy. Give them a chance. Thus; I pulled my punches and started to miss balls on purpose. Fraser must have seen through this because he told me to stop letting him win. I denied that I was doing anything of the sort but he stood his ground. The result — time to take me down.

Dilemma — I don't hurt little kids. I don't hurt kids in general (I don't hurt anyone if I can help it), so as they leapt all over me, how could I stop them from hurting me without hurting them? I twisted Christerphon's charge around so that his back was against my front and went for the ribs (You said you were gonna tickle feet, damn it. Don't you know your anatomy? Your ribs aren't your feet. « Yeah, yeah hold on. I'll get to it! ») and stopped. He had such a look of horror on his face that…, well I couldn't describe it. Some kids hate to be tickled. Some hate it but know it's all play. Other fake hating it as its part of the game and still others like playing the game but this little boy…, it was sheer terror that played in his eyes. So, I backed off and he retreated out of the rough and tumble business still happy.

I was still left with Fraser on my back. I jabbed my thumbs into his sides and then, as he spasmed, I slid him to the ground. He lay there on his back so I grabbed his ankle and started to tickle. I am not a consummate sole tickler. Some people might be able to play orchestral solos down there, but I am just a starting foot tickler. I focused on his outstep and watched him break into laughter at the sensation of my fingers on his small feet. The thing is, as soon as I stopped, he leapt back up and started all over again and just as quickly, he was back on the ground with his ankle in my grasp and my fingers whisking gently up his outstep once more.

On the third attack by him on my person, I had had enough. Fraser was going to die a long, lingering death at my tickling fingers (figuratively speaking). I clutched his ankle and started whisking them up his arches up to the balls, back down to the arches. Across the heel to the instep, outstep and arches. Fraser lay there on his back on the ground; not moving, his eyes screwed tightly shut, mouth open wide. The only indication that he was laughing was the twitching of his stomach as he laughed from his belly. This went on for ten mintues until a tiny sheen of tears started to decorate the edges of his cheeks and he appeared to be gasping for breath. I had finally tired him out.

So it ends. Yes, I have tickled feet and have seen feet getting tickled, so there could be more feet tickling stories in the future. Who knows? YOU LIKE FEET. WE LIKE FEET.

Well, this story is for all those who cried, and forever will cry that holy refrain that will one day rival such lines as: "I Like Ike", "May the Force Be With You" and "D'OH". In centuries to come, children will scream WE LIKE FEET!!

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