Memoirs of a Fat Girl

I’m wildly ticklish, and Sandy takes full advantage of it. It’s not as bad as when I was a kid, I’d practically be in hysterics if someone looked at me wrong. But it’s still pretty nuts, especially since lover boy knows every which button to push.

There we are, lying in his bed, peacefully watching TV. Out of the blue Sandy rams two fingers up my armpit, and it’s all downhill from there. I shriek and try to fend him off, but it usually ends with him wrestling me down and blowing raspberries into my navel. That alone doubles me up so badly, I’m practically in tears by the time he’s done.

Yesterday was a longer session than usual, and even though I’d managed to wriggle out of his grasp, I was so drained from laughter that he easily caught me time and again. After a little while when we were mostly still again I asked him, totally out of breath, “Whytheheckdoyouticklemesomuch?”

Mischievous grin, sarcastic cackle. “I love to hear you laugh. I like to think it means you’re happy. “

So much. I still can’t believe you’re here. Let’s always be like this. Don’t change.

“I’m very happy. Please stop tickling me now?”

He complied. For 10 seconds. Then out of the blue, shouted, “Never!” and wrestled me down again.

I ended up falling off the bed. Shits and giggles.