Yo, Bud -
Got a little challenge here for ya.
Time to see how tough you are, and what yer endurance is like.
You man enough to accept the challenge, or you gonna wimp out right now?
It's just a little game, dude. You like engaging another jock in a little friendly sport, don't ya? May the better MAN win.
Here's the deal:
You are down here on a Friday night. We got tickets for Rangers/Leafs at the Garden on Saturday night. We been drinking beers, horsing around, bullshitting one another, when I toss out this game idea. You lose, you gotta wear... you know which jersey to the game and root for...you know which team (GO, RANGERS! YO!)
Here's the game plan: You get tied for four quarters, with a break between each quarter. Simple little endurance challenge. Each quarter lasts an hour. No sweat for you, right, tuff guy? You hold out for four hours, you win. You win, and I got to pay a penalty. Any penalty you come up with, no matter what it is. No questions, no backing out.
You are so anxious to see ME go down, to see me suffer, you want so badly to devise some really wicked penalty for me to pay, that you accept the challenge. You figure that it's gonna be some dumb-assed little tickling routine, you are CONFIDENT that you could beat it in yer sleep.
But here are the rules by which you can LOSE:
You yell, "I QUIT" - You Lose.
You pass out - You Lose
You piss yourself - You Lose
Deal? Deal. Simple, huh?
O.K. While you peel down to yer gym shorts, I go and get these four leather restraints. I muscle you over to the bed and toss you down on yer back.
This bed I got here is just a firm, queen-sized mattress on a solid wooden platform. I got it rigged for some good tie-downs. Four short chains, one in each corner, are permanently bolted to the frame. Yer arms are stretched out over yer head, and yer wrists are locked into the restraints, which are padlocked to the two chains on the upper corners, yer hands way up in the corners. I grab yer ankles and pull you down the bed, putting a nice stretch on yer upper body. I grab one ankle, lock a restraint around, and pull it way over and down to the bottom corner, locking it to the chain. I take yer other ankle, same thing, but now you feel the stretch in yer legs as I yank it over and lock it down. Man, are you ever stretched out. You test yer muscles against the leather and chains, and find they don't give. Hell, Hercules couldn't even bust out of this, so I think it will hold a tough, strong jock like you. Shit, buddy, you already can't hardly move.
You see me go and bring over a whole box of ropes. We're not done yet.
I use these thick, braided boat ropes, 1/2 inch or 3/4 inch diameter. Real strong, hold knots real well. I take a length of rope and tie it to yer upper arm, right between the bicep and the shoulder. I pull the end of the rope out to the side and feed it through a hook in the platform. Pulling real hard, it forces yer shoulder and upper arm out and down to the mattress. I tie it off, tightly. Another rope goes around yer forearm, just below the elbow, pulled hard out to the side hook, and tied off. Same routine on yer other arm. Man, now you can't move yer arms AT ALL. Sorta makes them armpits feel pretty wide open and vulnerable, don't it?
I take a longer length of rope, tie one end to a hook in the side of the platform, at about yer chest level. Forcing my hand under yer back, the rope is passed under yer back, over yer chest, right below the pecs, under yer back again, over yer chest, right next to the previous pass, out to the other side of the bed, through a hook, and pulled real hard and tied off. You immediately feel the rope squeezing yer chest and ribs. With it looped around you like that and pulled in two directions, it doesn't give at all. In fact with every breath you try to take, you feel it compressing yer chest and ribs. If you were to start to breathe hard and fast for some reason, you'd really feel it. Might even prevent you from sucking back a good, full breath.
Another long length, tied to one side, passed under yer butt, across yer waist just below yer hip bones, under and over again, pulled out to the other side hard, tied off. Now you can't move yer hips or abs, and that tight rope is putting some nice, steady pressure on yer lower abs. You feel it with every single breath.
Six more short pieces of rope. Three to each leg. Ropes get tied around yer lower legs just below the knees, yer lower quads and yer upper quads, right near yer crotch, over yer gym shorts. Each rope pulled hard out to the side, fed through a hook, and tied off. Both legs stretched real good, unable to move.
Two pieces of thinner clothesline rope. One each tied around the base of each of yer big toes. Ropes pulled back to each side of the platform, fed through hooks, pulled hard. Forces yer bare feet to flex back and twist outward at a 45 degree angle. Stretches them soles real nice. Final piece of clothesline rope tied around yer left big toe, stretched straight across to yer right big toe, pulled tight and tied off. With yer toes tied off in two different, severe directions, you can't move yer feet at all. Makes 'em feel pretty helpless, don't it? What do you think's gonna happen to 'em, huh buddy?
And now you REALLY try to flex and use yer muscles to test yer tie-down. Hell, what self-respecting jock wouldn't try to beat it? You find that you can't move at all. You can't even get any leverage to BEGIN to pull against the restraints. You have never been tied up so tightly and severely before. What yer girlfriend used to do to you was CHILD'S PLAY compared to this. Yup, it takes another tough jock to REALLY tie down another jock and make him FEEL IT. Man, you are one TIED UP MOTHERFUCKING TICKLISH JOCK.
The sweat is already starting to bead up in yer armpits. The anticipation of possibly being TICKLED while you are in such a tight position is getting to you already.
And you know what I do next?
I leave you there, sweating and testing those bonds. I walk out of the room. You hear me in the kitchen. You call out, "Hey, Man, what the fuck are you doing?" No answer. You are alone, left to contemplate yer fate. You wait, you think, you wait some more.
After a while, I return, with a nice cold bottle of Michelob. I go across the room and sit down I don't touch you or say anything.
I sit for many long minutes, staring at you and nursing my beer.
You are lying there, sweating, waiting, and thinking about what's gonna happen.
The minutes tick slowly by. Man, why are you sweating so much, buddy? You afraid of what's gonna happen to ya? What's wrong, tuff guy, you afraid you won't be able to handle it? A tuff jock like you? Don't make me laugh.
Finally, I go to a table and pick up two long, white, pointy feathers. They are swan feathers, stiff but soft, that I picked up this summer while rowing on a lake in Connecticut. Brutal for tickling. I walk over to you and...just lay the feathers down on yer chest, with the tips sticking into yer armpits. You can just feel the tips brushing gently against the hair in yer pits. That's all. Then I walk out of the room again. You're alone to think some more, and worry about those feathers. And sweat in anticipation.
You hear me taking a much-needed piss in the adjacent bathroom. Oh fuck, man. With all those beers we been drinking over the last couple of hours, you should have thought about taking a leak yourself before getting tied down so thoroughly. You might be fucked, man.
All you can do is lay there helplessly, thinking with dread about what is probably going to happen to you. You can pick up yer head from the mattress and look down at those feathers resting on yer chest. But you can't even move enough to jostle them off yer chest. You are stuck just staring at them, thinking about them eventually being used to TICKLE you. And the thought begins to drive you nuts.
You feel the tips gently poking into yer armpits, and you shudder, involuntarily.
I finally return with another beer. I set it down on the bedside table, so it is handy. I look down at you for a few long minutes, then I finally say,
"So, Buddy - You Ticklish At All?"
You, of course, grunt and reply, with a very cocky attitude, "No way, Man."
I guess it is up to me to prove you wrong. And to make you swallow that pride.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity of anticipation, and a lot of sweat and straining on yer part, I start the clock. The game has finally begun.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pick up ONE of the feathers from yer chest, and slowly, gently start poking the tip into yer right armpit, tickling the hairs, and eventually reaching the sensitive skin. You gasp and tense up as the ticklish sensation hits you. You involuntarily try to move yer armpit out of harm's way, but it is absolutely no use. You can't move a muscle.
The light tickling of just yer right armpit goes on and on. 5 minutes, 10 minutes. You are stoic at first, just sucking in some breath, feeling those ropes around yer chest and ribs and abs tighten with each inhale. You are trying not to show how much this fucking light tickling of just ONE ARMPIT is getting to you, but it is a losing battle. As it goes on, you begin to breathe heavier, grunt, groan, and finally a small chuckle escapes as you exhale. then another, then another. Eventually, yer face and upper chest are turning red from the strain of trying to hold it in, and you lose the battle. You let out a solid laugh, and now that the flood gates are open, you find it impossible to hold it in again. You are giggling and laughing now, with the impossible sensations of getting just yer right armpit constantly tickled.
Man, you are dead meat, buddy. Not ten minutes into the game and you are LAUGHING already? I thought you'd hold out for at least an hour. What a wuss.
After a full ten minutes, I move that one feather to yer left armpit, and repeat the tickling process. Just right there, nowhere else. You are giggling and trying to squirm, the light tickling really getting to you. Man, it is a riot to make a tough jock like you lose it by doing something so simple and lightweight.
After another ten minutes of watching you giggle and try to squirm, I finally pick up the second feather off yer chest, and now I begin giving you both barrels. Both armpits being tickled lightly with feathers practically sends you through the roof! You are tensing and flexing, trying like mad to escape, but having nowhere to go. And when the feathers finally start being dragged down the sides of yer pecs and swirled around, a whole new ticklish area is opened up. You are fucking going NUTS, but you can't hold it back. You are laughing and gasping for breath. Even when the feathers are dragged across yer pecs and stop and twirl right on yer nipples, they are ticklish, too, and it makes you mad as hell that I found another sensitive spot to torment you on. Yup, a guy's nipples can be really ticklish. Now, how would another tough jock know something like that, huh buddy? Do you think he'd take advantage? What the fuck do you think?
The light tickling right there on yer nips is really starting to break you down. Full and extreme advantage of a major weak spot is taken. No mercy.
The feathers are eventually dragged and swirled down yer tender sides, toward yer stomach and abs. Continuous light, relentless strokes down yer sides makes you want to move yer chest and waist out of the way, but of course, you can't.
The feathers eventually find their torturous way to yer legs. Exploring every inch of yer legs, they find some remarkably ticklish spots, as evidenced by yer gasping and giggling. Yer legs are totally defenseless against the attack.
Hey, buddy, how does it feel for a HOCKEY PLAYER to not be able to use his LEGS, huh?
What is yer DEFENSE strategy gonna be now, tuff guy?
You are finally realizing something that I've known for a long time, and that I am now using against you. With my jock background, I know that a jock was built to MOVE. Every aspect of a jock's life, from working out to practicing to running to playing sports, hell, even strutting around, flexing and stretching our sore muscles, and especially showing off, is based on MOVEMENT. An athlete trains his body to MOVE. Hell, he fucking LIVES for it. And if you take away a jock's ability to move, you are taking away his prime asset. He feels totally helpless, like a caged animal.
So, buddy, looks like I'm using that against ya now. How does it feel to have all those powerful muscles, that you are so proud of, that you've been working for years on developing, how does it feel to have them all of a sudden be TOTALLY USELESS? To have that strong, tough body of yours so fuckin' helpless, so defenseless? Yer muscles have gotten you out of a lot of jams before, but not this time, muscle-boy. Kinda kills ya, don't it?
You are now also realizing that in this tight position, yer muscles are stretched out to the max, but the position is actually COMFORTABLE enough, just barely, for you to be able to hold it for HOURS AND HOURS. You know that I know that you work out, and that you are just tough enough and strong enough to take it. Hell, a wimpier guy would NEVER be able to take it for long without crying for his mommy. But you, I am using yer strength and endurance AGAINST you now, and you know it. And the thought fucking drives you up the wall.
The light tickling continues, and in contrast to the severe tie-down, it totally pisses you off. You start using super-human effort to try to flex and bust out of the restraints. Yer jock instincts automatically take over, and you try to muscle yer way out. You are not using yer head. You are sweating and grunting and groaning, turning all shades of red, every vein in yer body standing out, but it is ABSOLUTELY NO USE. You can't move an inch. And yer exertion is actually tiring you out more quickly, chipping away at yer defense. Shit, buddy, shouldn't you be trying to CONSERVE yer energy? Ya might need it later!
This is the worst fucking thing that you have ever gone through. Just tied down real tight, no other distractions, and just being slowly, mercilessly, deliberately tickle tortured. By another jock who knows ALL yer weaknesses, and is happy to take FULL ADVANTAGE.
By the time these feathers finally move down to yer helpless bare feet, and start running between the toes, under the toes, across the balls and arches, you have nearly exhausted yourself puling against yer bonds, grunting, gasping, and laughing. You are in bad shape, man. The foot tickling continues, and you desperately wish you could move yer feet away from the light, tickling feathers. But you can't. I don't know if you realize it yet, buddy, but at this point, after such non-stop light tickling and trying fruitlessly to use yer strength to defend yerself, and exhausting yerself in the process, that you will just about feel like CRAWLING OUT OF YER SKIN. Yes, it will be that bad. Worse than you ever imagined it would be. And you are losing it in front of another jock. Bad form, dude.
The hour winds down with you exhausted, sweating, out of breath, and with every nerve ending in yer body sensitized by the light feather tickling. And you are thirsty as hell from all the laughing and hard breathing.
End of 1st Quarter. Short break. I go to the kitchen, leaving you panting like a dog on the bed, and grab a cold beer.
I return and ask you if you want a drink. You immediately say yes, and I grab the back of yer head, tilt it up, and pour about a half a bottle down yer throat. You gulp it down, so relieved that you are not even thinking about the consequences of drinking right now.
Hour Two. 2nd Quarter. Time to get down to some serious tickling. Yer body must feel so completely sensitized by now from all that light feather stroking, that you are a sitting duck. I start with my fingers in yer sensitive armpits. From light fingertip tickling, to really digging in and wiggling my fingers against yer muscles and tissues, I have you gasping and laughing yer head off in no time flat. Working right down yer body again, slowly, methodically, first lightly, then really digging in. You are sweating so hard by now, and you are still exhausting yerself by trying to pull against yer restraints, like a wild animal. But you are trapped. Just gotta lie there and take it like a man. But you are really losing it, buddy, laughing and turning red and sweating and gasping for breath. Jesus Christ, man. Show some fucking backbone! I HATE to see you like this, buddy. Especially since you are usually so proud and tough and cocky. Where is all of that attitude now, huh? Crumbling away. Man, you are pathetic. Look at yerself. A total mess.
Halfway through the second quarter finds me sitting comfortably on the floor at the foot of the bed, both hands tickling both of yer bare feet. No, not tickling, DESTROYING. My fingers wiggling and my fingernails scraping all those sensitive parts of yer stretched-out soles has you near to screaming, grunting, and almost in a state of panic. I don't know if you know this about me, dude, but one of my absolute favorite things to do is to torture a tough jock's bare feet. It can fucking slay a guy, and I should know. I'm real good at it, and I can make you suffer down there like you've never suffered before. The foot tickling just goes on and on and on. The more it tickles, the more you laugh, and the more it happens, the more ticklish you get. It's like a snowball effect, and you are caught up in it, rolling quickly down the road to hell. And I'm fucking steering ya there, man. And enjoying every fuckin' minute of it.
Full half hour on yer feet nearly kills ya. You desperately try to move yer feet out of the way of my fingers, but if you try, those ropes around yer big toes stretch and pull them, making it REAL uncomfortable for ya. You gotta use all yer strength and determination to try NOT to move yer feet. If only you could think of something else. But yer whole body is sensitized and tuned in to one thing: you are slowly being tickled to death, and you can't fuckin' stand it.
End of second hour. Half Time. Short break. You are shaking, gasping, moaning, yer body completely racked out, yer endurance a fraction of what it usually is. I leave and get another cold beer. You know you shouldn't drink any, since you got that funny feeling creeping into yer bladder, like ya gotta take a leak REAL BAD. It's been creeping up on ya for the last hour, but with all the tickling, you have been distracted. Now, during this short break, the feeling really hits ya. Damn, ya wish ya had thought to take a leak before this started. What a fuckin' moron. But you are so thirsty from laughing and trying to suck back air, that you guzzle down half a bottle of that ice cold brew when I pour it into yer mouth.
And now, we both know that you don't have a chance in hell of winning this game. I know that you are not gonna last much longer, but as I am feeding you yer beer, I start to give you a "pep talk' to give you some false hope about yer chances of winning. (Which are actually nil.)
"Man, Bud, that must be fuckin' tough to take. But you can do it, buddy. You haven't been working out and playing hockey all these years for nothing. You are one tuff jock, alright. A real fuckin' athlete. Look, you are halfway home, man. You already made it through two hours. Only two short hours to go, dude. Man, I can't believe how strong and tough you are. This ain't hardly fazing you at all, is it, bud? Damn, I never knew you were THIS tuff. You're really showing me a thing or two. I am fucking impressed at yer stamina, buddy. Awesome control, dude. Shit, I wish I was HALF AS TUFF as you, big guy. You are a real fuckin' man, ain't ya? Piece of cake for ya, right? C'mon, big guy, you can make it. Only two more hours to go. I'm in yer corner, dude. I'm rooting for ya, buddy."
All this as you are lying there shaking, sweating, panting, and beginning to "zone out". Yer eyeballs occasionally start to roll back under yer lids.
Half-Time Festivities over, 3rd Quarter starts with a fresh game plan. With one feather and one hand, the two sides of yer body are tickled, but in different intensities and with different methods. Yer right armpit, sides and abs are lightly tickled with a feather, while yer left side is tickled hard with my fingers. Five solid minutes, then sides are switched, confusing yer senses and sending you into new gales of panting and laughing. Yer fucking bladder is now so full, that every time you shake with laughter or suck back some air, the pain grows and grows. Man, NOTHING worse than when a guy really needs to take a leak, and he can't, huh?
Maybe the WORST feeling in the world. Or is being TICKLED the worst feeling in the world? Or how about BOTH together, at the SAME TIME?
SORTA LIKE A ONE-TWO PUNCH, HUH, BUDDY?
After 20 minutes of upper body tickling, fingers and feather, yer feet are next up. You are dreading this, because the last round on yer feet nearly had you yelling, "I QUIT". And this is gonna be worse.
You don't know what is harder to take on yer bare soles, my fingernails or this damn feather, twirling in and out, between yer toes, and across yer arch. Back and forth, one foot to the other, both getting the full treatment, but with different intensities, all the time. You are just about gone. I sense it, and decide to go for the kill.
I go up and press my fist into yer lower abs. You try to jump and you yelp in surprise and pain. Any minute now, I think.
I straddle you and sit down hard on yer lower abs, crushing them under my considerable weight. You are a dead man.
I reach down and begin a tickle attack on yer armpits and ribs and sides of yer stomach that is so unrelenting, so intense, that you feel all yer control just slip away.
But do you yell, "I QUIT" and try to save yerself a scrap of pride? No, you haven't thought fast enough. Yer judgment is clouded from all the tickling and panting and laughing. You barely know what is happening as you...
lose control of yer bladder and start pissing uncontrollably. Hell, you are hardly even aware of it. Like a little baby.
Dude, yer worst fucking fear, that you might someday lose control of yer bladder while you are being tickled, has come true. In spades. AND, in front of another tough jock who fucking CHALLENGED you. Maybe in front of a girlfriend, if this happened, you might be able to get mad at HER, or even laugh it off. But not here, not now, when you stepped up to the plate of yer own free will and STRUCK OUT. You blew it, big time.
You will carry this one to yer GRAVE. You will never forget the time yer buddy tickled you so hard and long that you pissed yerself. Probably the most embarrassing moment in yer life.
And don't think I won't take every opportunity from now on to rub it in. Every time I see you, talk to you or write to you, all I have to say is, "Hey, Bud...Ya Want A Beer?" and you'll know EXACTLY what I am referring to. Fucking kill you every time, and force that pride right down yer fucking throat.
Shit, man, you didn't even make it to the 4th Quarter. Too bad, loser.
Guess I win the bet.
I go and grab a towel and toss it over yer wet shorts, covering them up.
Now, buddy, how are we gonna spend the 4th Quarter? You know how. With me sitting on yer chest, gently tickling yer armpits, lightly, with my fingertips, while I begin to recite all the names, stats and positions of every single player for the RANGERS.
For the final hour, you are gonna MEMORIZE each one, until you can say them all back to me, so you'll know who you're rooting for tomorrow night. And I hope that this hour's worth of light tickling in yer pits and those wet shorts you're wearing don't distract you from yer memorization task.
Here we go, buddy:
GO, RANGERS!! YO!