by Dan Boren
« Back To Free Stories Archive
Part One: The Swan
Once the sunlight on my bed had become too blinding, I finally rolled out of bed.
Although I was home from college on summer break, it sure didn't feel like the fun train had reached my neighborhood yet. My friends were jetting off to exotic locales and I was....at home. And it's not like I was kicking back and relaxing at home. For one thing, my mom had fantasized for years about fixing up the shack in the backyard and turning it into a "quaint and cozy" guesthouse so that any family friends would be out of her hair during impromptu visits. And now she was actually going to do her little project. Even though she planned to hire a handyman to do most of the technical work, I was still unfortunately unemployed for the summer and was therefore enlisted to help out to save on labor costs. Every contractor that had dealt with Mom knew she drove a hard bargain.
"It'll do you some good to get out in the sun. Get that vitamin D directemente through your pores. Remember your sunblock though." Mom always gave slightly contradictory advice like that. "And maybe it'll inspire you to find a nice paying job somewhere soon."
"Thanks, Mom. I'm sure this is all part of your grand parenting plan."
"Uh huh. So remember to listen for the door at around eleven to let Mr. Perry in. He's bringing his son Samuel to help out, so it really isn't like I'm the only parent to enslave her child." She paused and smiled. "Actually, Mr. Perry's son went to high school with you, so you guys can catch up a little."
I froze for a second. Was she fucking serious? "Sam Perry? Mom, there is nothing for Sam and I to catch up on."
Three years earlier....
In our senior year of high school Sam and I had been in AP Italian together. On the first day, a lanky shape dashed into the classroom about ten minutes after class had started. He grabbed the closest seat: the one directly in front of mine. Sam had been wearing a light gray tank top and loose green running shorts. While Signora Orfanelli glared at him and asked him for his name, he tucked a pair of soccer shoes under the desk. The dusty windows in the back were open and as he slung his messenger bag over his head, I wrinkled my nose at what the breeze brought over. It smelled like a peppermint factory and a musk deer farm had collided and decided to mate. I checked my shoe, but nope, it wasn't a Shit on the Shoe day. And then I smelled it again. I looked up from under the desk and I let go of the bottom of my sneaker once I realized where the musty and sweet odor was wafting from: Sam's armpit. He had clearly just run out of the quad from soccer with his buddies and in a half-hearted bow towards social decency, he had swiped his Speed Stick over his armpit funk. Eighteen-year-old guys aren't exactly the slickest people on the hygiene scale. On most guys, this combo of trying to hide BO after the fact always produced the most repulsive nasal assault, but the little tepee in my jeans clearly told me that I had personal exceptions to that rule.
As I tried to make sense of this sudden arousal, Sam raised his hand to ask about something that had already been discussed to death in the first ten minutes of class. Since he was angled towards Orfanelli, I looked towards the curve of his arm where it arced into his armpit. There was a tiny smattering of dark hairs, but each of the two dozen hairs was thick and curly, all the better to soak up his boyish sweat. (So I counted his pit hairs. I swear I'm not that much of a freak....I think.) I hadn't even seen his face and I was already in love/lust.
Suddenly, Sam turned around with a lopsided grin on his face and his arm was again up in the air. Sam didn't exactly have movie star looks, but he had twinkly dark brown eyes and a light peach fuzz that scruffed up his cheekbones and jaw. Not too tall either; Sam was probably about 5' 7 and very lean from so much running during soccer. From what I could see, his legs were well-muscled and starting from his ankles, his legs were tinted brown both by the sun and by a coat of light brown hairs. Of course, my eyeballs couldn't help but fixate on his armpit as a droplet of sweat rolled down his tricep and high-fived all the pit hairs before disappearing into his tank top. At this point, I noticed that the whole class had turned around to watch me. Shit! Apparently, Orfanelli had just asked someone to conjugate a verb and although Sam had volunteered, her well-honed teacher senses had noticed my glazed expression and decided to pick me. I scrambled to the board and picked up some chalk.
Needless to say, for the rest of the semester, I rarely learned much Italian in class. I was a learn-it-yourselfer anyway, so I still breezed through the exams by going over the grammar and readings at home. The class met three times a week and with Sam generally in the seat in front of me, class time was clearly better spent on other pursuits. We often partnered up with other people in class to practice conversation skills and during the few times that we chatted haltingly in Italian, I learned that he was Jewish by birth since he had an Israeli mother, but he rarely went to temple with her. His father owned a small construction business and often forced Sam to work for him for no pay during the summer, something that he hated since it prevented him from playing soccer all day.
There was just so much to see (and of course, smell) whenever Sam was around: flashes of armpit, leg, etc. On one particular day, Sam came in early for once and chose a seat behind me in the next row. Once class started, Orfanelli asked us to find a conversation partner and of course, I nonchalantly turned around to chat with Sam. While we talked about whether there would be a "party it would be made this weekend" (so our Italian conversation skills sucked, that's not the point), Sam rested both of his long legs on the seat in front of him. Since he was wearing loose cargo shorts, I had a clear view straight down his shorts. The dusting of wispy brown hairs that covered his calves had apparently been deceiving. Just past the knee, the little hairs turned wiry and dark. When Sam shifted in his seat as he struggled to find a word to express getting his desire to "get shitfaced drunk," his shorts flopped open a little more and I almost fell out of my chair: Sam was freeballing. I could see the curly little hairs get even denser as they turned into hairy black whorls on his inner thighs. And just tucked into the shadows of khaki layers, I saw the thick hair merge into his pubes. If I squinted with one eye, I could almost make out his nutsack, but looking like a shortsighted Cyclops would probably alert Sam that I was staring. "Thank you, Jesus," I thought, even though I'm sure He had nothing to do with Sam's decision not to wear boxers that morning.
At the start of another memorable class, I could smell Sam before he even fully entered the room. The instant he turned the corner, I was caught in a well-nigh touchable cloud of stink. "Someone's been exercising," I remarked while wrinkling my nose as Sam plopped down his grimy soccer ball. His red t-shirt was dark brown with sweat along the shoulder blades, under the arms, and in the small of his back. Even his white running shorts had gray shades from sweat along the butt crack.
"Yeah, so I ran out of deodorant yesterday and forgot to get more AND I horsed around too much to have time for a shower, but hey, shit happens. I don't usually smell this awesome, you know. And besides, there are pheromones in sweat that can attract me a mate." He made a face and mimed being a caveman.
"Pheromones, huh. Looks like you've been studying for Psych," I said as Sam struggled to take off a grubby wifebeater from under his t-shirt.
While he pulled his arms out of the sleeves, his t-shirt pulled up and all I saw was treasure. A treasure trail, to be exact. Just above his adorable little navel, Sam had a large tuft of bristly russet hairs that radiated out in wisps towards his hips. As this hair flowed towards his nether regions, the trail expanded and darkened in color. Thicker hairs peaked out of his smiley face boxers. Since Sam didn't have much arm hair and just those few dozen pit hairs I'd drooled over earlier, I had not expected such hirsute generosity on his stomach. Maybe all of his hair-growing genes had saved up their energies for his crotch and the neighboring provinces? Orfanelli started class and since we had a class-long quiz that day, I soon forgot about Sam's furry little stomach as I started filling in verb conjugations. The funk that the guy was throwing off from his pits was actually a negative that day since it was hard to think of the subjunctive when I had this heady brew in my nostrils and fogging up my brain. I breathed out hard and started writing again.
Midway through, I heard Sam swear silently as he just gave up. "Screw this," he muttered as he walked by me and handed in his dog-eared quiz sheet. When Orfanelli finally said to finish up our last thoughts on the mini-essay, I stood up to pack my stuff to leave. I felt my flip flop step into something squishy and wet. When I looked down, I saw a dirty clump under my desk. Even as I picked it up, I knew that it was Sam's wifebeater and that he had probably hung it on the back of his chair to "dry." It had just fallen down like raw steak in front of a raptor. I took a quick glance around and quickly stuffed it into my backpack. "I'm just taking it to return it later, " I rationalized to myself, all the while knowing that I had an aching boner in my pants just thinking about how funky the yellowish pitstains on it smelled. Clearly, I never returned it to Sam.
A few days later, right before Italian I saw Sam in the hallway with his girlfriend Shao Xi. She was a pretty athletic girl herself and smart to boot, so they made a great couple. As the bell for passing period rang, Sam dived into his locker to look for his textbook. Shao grinned as she goosed Sam on the ribs. His reaction was immediate. His shaggy head shot up and struck one of the shelves, but he turned back around with a smile as he pretended to be mad at her.
"Ouch, babe. You know I hate it when you touch me like that," he whined teasingly as he spun around to look for his book again.
This time, he was reaching for a stack on the top shelf of the locker and Shao was ready to strike elsewhere. The underarms of his shirt had two little splotches of perspiration, but Shao dug her fingers in anyway. She was actually careful to get her fingers into the sleeve of the shirt and in the middle of the hairy patch, so clearly his sweaty pits didn't gross her out that much. He basically screamed into his locker as soon as she did this and his arms clamped down on his sides with her hands still under his arms.
As any tickle fiend knows, this is one of the best ways to tickle someone in the armpits. Since they aren't going to release their arms for fear of exposing more flesh to your grasping digits, your fingers are just free to scratch and scrape away at their armpits. And for an enclosed space under the arms, one would be surprised at how much mobility is possible. As a result, Sam was in hysterics as Shao just calmly groped around her boyfriend's underarms. He actually had fallen against the wall and was sliding down it, trying his darndest to beg her to stop. The halls had almost emptied by now, but everyone left was sniggering at Sam. Sam had never held himself out to be any kind of "tough guy," but hey, a falsetto scream and high-pitched pleading doesn't win you masculinity points.
When Sam got up, he was furious. "Haven't I always told you, never NEVER touch me there? I never mind it elsewhere, but there...it's just not cool when it's there." Clearly, Sam had issues just saying the word "armpit" for fear of putting ideas into people's heads.
Shao was nonchalant. "Well, deal with it. All I did was tickle you. You took my cherry." My eyes widened at this. People were having sex? (Sorry, I was still pretty sheltered at that point.) "Besides, you made my fingers smell like nasty, so we both lose." She crinkled her nose as she held out her hands and sniffed one.
Sam sighed. "Fine. I'm sorry I overreacted. Here, let me take back what's mine," he said as he licked his own funky sweat off of one her fingers."
Shao giggled and after a brief lip peck, they headed off to class. Since I was down the hall, I pretended to fumble with my books and papers as Sam walked past me into Italian. We had presentations that day in Italian, so it was just a boring succession of students droning on and on about the development of Italian cinema. Near the end of class, day, Anna, the best student in the class, tried a particularly difficult sentence construction. Orfanelli stopped her mid-way through an otherwise fluent sentence and asked the class why the phrase, "a delicate situation" could not be translated as "il solletico." Before anyone could answer, the bell had rung and class was over. Orfanelli spun around, knowing that students' brains shut off once the bell has rung. As people slowly filed out, Sam uncharacteristically asked me what "il solletico" meant. I don't know what I was thinking, but I reached out my hand while he turned his head to secure the straps on his messenger bag. Maybe it was because I had just seen the incident with Shao, but when I saw Sam's right arm arched over his shoulder, I just stuck my hand under his sleeve and poked an index finger right into the middle of his soaked tuft of pit fur. I didn't get in two scratches of his pale armpit skin under the dark hairs when he shoved me away from him with a girly giggle that turned quickly into a snarled "What the fuck!?" Stunned and embarrassed that I had let my passions get the best of me, I tried to explain that "il sollectico" meant "ticklishness" in Italian.
He cut me off: "Whatever, man. I've seen you eyeing me there since the first day of class. You just perv out on looking at them, don't you? I mean, I'm fine with you gawking, but when you start groping...."
As I stammered out, "What?" he rolled his eyes and rolled back his sleeve while lifting his arm. I couldn't help but take a deep breath as the curly hairs fluttered moistly against his inner arm. I quickly looked down, not wanting him to see me stare. This was not a good move since his shirt had gotten untucked since his arm was overhead. I closed my eyes to avoid looking at his furry little abdomen. His pants were actually sagging a bit that day, so I completely saw the top half of his pubic bush. He shook his head and just started to walk out, clearly noticing that I had tried to actually smell his pits AND stare at his crotch. "Nice boner, loser" he commented casually as he elbowed past me out of the room.
After this fiasco, Sam always made an effort to sit as far from me as possible. Since it was near the end of the school year, it really wasn't a big deal. I admit that it was a bit much, that I shouldn't have crossed that line, shouldn't have touched him, as Sam would call it, "there." Once school let out, I slowly forgot about Sam while I just relaxed by the pool or went to the beach with friends.
A month into summer, when I was on my way back from a long bike ride with my best friend Jillian, Sam and I finally ran into each other. Well, not exactly. Sam was working for his father as usual and was painting a house a few blocks from mine. As Jillian and I cruised by, I tried to avoid making eye contact with Sam and hoping even that he wouldn't notice me. Since he wasn't wearing a shirt and just had it tucked in his baggy shorts, it was hard not to sneak a look at his sinewy tan body. In the end, it didn't matter anyway since he had noticed me. He yelled, "Hey, stop!" as he clambered down the ladder that was placed against the house. Jillian gave me a bemused expression. Sam hadn't spoken to me for two months and it wasn't like we were ever real friends, so it really was weird for him to dash across the street like this. Once he got close, I could smell a heavy cloud of Sam's funk. It was so intense that Jillian mimed gagging and even I coughed a little. With school nowhere on the near horizon, it seemed that Sam had abandoned his Speed Stick for good.
"I'm going to head home while you boys chitchat. Be good," Jillian winked as she rolled off on her bike. Although I had never told her at that point, Jillian clearly knew by intuition that I had the biggest crush on Sam. Of course, at the time, I hated Jillian for leaving me in this awkwardness.
As soon as Jillian disappeared around the corner, I was caught off guard when Sam basically tackled me with me still on my bike. Unbalanced, I tipped over onto the asphalt driveway of the house that Sam had been painting. Before I had even hit the ground sprawling, Sam had swung his right fist at my head. Thank god for bicycle helmets, I thought as his hand hit me with enough force to make me feel it through the headgear. His second swing unfortunately did catch me in the side of the face and I felt myself bruising already. Also stinging with a little road rash and not used to any kind of physical confrontation, I surprised even myself when I leapt up and body-slammed Sam. Sam and I were both about the same weight and I did a lot of running, so when I pushed with all my leg muscles, Sam just flew backwards, losing his left sneaker in midair. We crashed through the perfectly trimmed shrubbery and I found that the arrangement of the bush's branches and how I was positioned over Sam meant that he was dangling helplessly at an angle amongst the leaves, with all his limbs entangled either under him or under me.
"Fucker! Why'd you just jump me like that?" I yelled.
"Well, asswipe, I was just trying to knock the perviness out of you. You didn't need to fucking throw me into a tree."
"This isn't a tree, dickface. And I believe in self-defense."
"Get OFF of me!" he growled.
Emboldened by my success in retaliating against him, I smirked and said, "No" as I stroked his moist left sock. Now, Sam's foot odor was a totally different species from how his pits smelled. I'm no wine connoisseur, but Sam's foot smelled like woodchips and acrid sweat, with a rough finish of sneaker tannins.
"So, um, you're into my feet now too, asshole?" Sam grumbled.
As Sam watched with ever-widening pupils, I said calmly, "Not really, but they're there, so why not?" I peeled off the damp sock and his foot smell grew three times stronger. Sam had long toes, toes that had probably wanted to be fingers when they were little. A modest speckle of brown hairs speckled his big toe and on the top of the foot, the dark hair fanned out a bit, tapering until it reached the ankle, where it lightened out.
I remarked, "Hobbit feet, much?" even though his feet really weren't that
bad. I yanked out one of the hairs on his big toe.
"Fuck! That hurt, dipshit. Now let me and my hairy feet go."
"Nah, I remember how much you like....getting...tickled." I enunciated each word near the end, dropping the last word like a mini-bomb into the summer silence. Sam's mouth fell open a little, too stunned to say anything as I ran two fingers across the bottom of his clammy feet, from toe to heel. I repeated this motion for a few minutes, one finger tracing the path of the other, almost as if they were racing down the smooth creases of his foot. Why wasn't he laughing?
I looked up and Sam was red in the face from holding it in. I switched strategies and brushed my nails gently across the top of his foot, letting the small fan of hairs bump across my knuckles. Sam looked like he was going to pop, so I decided to go for the bigger prizes. I shifted my weight carefully so that Sam was still suspended in the bush and helpless. What had changed was that now his fuzzy torso was accessible. I looked Sam in the eye as he begged me wordlessly, still holding in all the laughter that was just fighting to get out. I methodically plucked off a few leaves from the bush and fanned them out a little in my grip. And then I started counting down from ten....nine....eight....
Once I hit three, Sam's eyes were bugging out as he saw my little sheath of leaves grazing against the thatch around his navel. Upon blastoff, I plunged the leaves into the sodden nest of brown fur and just slowly spun the gently serrated leaves around in his navel. A choked snort finally escaped his mouth, but with remarkable self-control, he clamped down. With one hand still twirling, my other hand smoothed out the smaller hairs that branched off of his happy trail and reached towards his obliques. Since Sam had been sweating so much, even these little strands were curly with moisture. Sam's eyes were closed by now as his body retreated into a happy place and I'm sure my gentle massage of his stomach hair was soothing even though I was still furiously tickling his navel. Little muffled giggles echoed against his tightly closed mouth and I knew I was close to breaking him.
"Wow, so I guess you weren't as ticklish as I thought you were. I'll just have to let you go."
Sam's eyes flew open as his hope of escaping further torment dazzled his mind. "Wait, really? No hard feelings?"
"Yeah," I said as I started to lift my weight a little. And then I eased myself back down when I felt him shift in anticipation. "Wait, there's just one more spot I'd like to check. Can you guess where?"
"You fucker, no, I'm not playing any guessing games. You got to feel me up since I gave you a bruise on the cheek. We're fucking even."
"I'll tell you when we're even. And I'll even give you a hint," I grinned as I slowly slid my hands up his ribs. I had abandoned the leaves since I really wanted the textured feeling of his skin against mine. Especially consider where I was headed. I took a sec to gaze at the small bunch of dark brown chest hair that sprouted from the middle of his modest pecs like a ridiculous medallion of manliness.
He shook his head violently, slowly comprehending that I was dead-set on touching him there.
"Oh come on, do I really need to give you another hint? Okay, shampoo is to head as deodorant is to blank. Any guesses, asshole?"
He snarled, "I fucking know where my body parts are!"
"What? Do you know what these particular parts are called?" I asked sweetly as my fingers slowed down their ascent, passing the last bumpy rib. Now I was tapping gently against the bottom of his inner arm, just nibbling at the first hairs fanning out of the tepid pools of sweat in his underarms.
"You're a really messed-up litt-lEIIIHhhhahahahaha!" he screeched as both of my hands pulled decisively into the wet hollows under his arms. I was careful not to touch his actual underarm flesh. I had fantasized long enough about Sam's pits that I knew I wanted to treasure each layer of his armpits. As my fingers ruffled his tufts of thick hair, he screamed his head off. About three minutes into his endless yell, I heard little Sally ride by on her bike. I abruptly stopped tickling Sam and he stopped laughing a few seconds later. Although she couldn't see us from the sunlit road, I could see Sally look quizzically at the inanimate bush that was shaped like a giant swan. Had the swan really screamed? She shrugged and biked off on her training wheels.
"Please......stop....I...can't....breathe," Sam wheezed as I discreetly tried to sniff my fingers. As I did this, I realized that I actually had a cut on my cheek from the tacky hipster ring that Sam always worn on his middle finger.
This got me riled up again and this time, my fingers flew into Sam's pits with a mission. His eyes scrunched up and he just shook silently with laughter. Isn't it bizarre how tickling starts off quiet, moves into screaming, and then peters out into silence again once the ticklee is winded and exhausted? I leaned in over him; I wanted to see his pits up close. While my right hand continued scraping and clawing through the hair of his right armpit mercilessly, I slowed down my left hand to a near crawl and watched each finger as it waded through his pungent armpit sweat and pushed aside each curly brown hair. I could almost see the pores of his armpit dilate as the body tried ironically to rid his body of fear by dumping out more sweat, which only made my fingers fly through the hair more efficiently. By now, my face was so close that some of his longer armpit hairs were actually inside my nostril. Of course, Sam's eyes were still closed, so I quickly shot out my tongue and licked up some salty goodness from the sodden hollow.
The wiry hairs rubbed against my tongue and I couldn't help but moan as my boner pushed into Sam's leg. Talk about having no hard feelings.... Sam was still convulsing with silent laughter and occasionally wheezes, so I'm sure he didn't notice the um....party in my pants. I continued spinning my index fingers in Sam's armpit; his underarms had already run out of sweat a few minutes ago and now the sweat was just drying in moist pungent globules, so my fingers were meeting a gentle resistance as the hairs stuck together. I must have been doing my heart-to-heart with his left armpit for about fifteen minutes before I realized that there was something sticking sharply into my leg. I looked down past the thatch of hair on Sam's abdomen and saw that he had decided to throw a festa of his own in his shorts. His woody had pushed to the side his smiley face boxers (did he just own one pair of boxers and just go commando when his one pair got too dirty even for him? Probably, knowing the little smelly fucker), so I could see a dense torrent of pubes just dangling out and waving hello. Was I imagining it or did I see a mushroom head poking out of the moist shadows. This was definitely crossing yet another line.
I stopped tickling Sam and when his eyes snapped open, I climbed gently out of the bush, leaving him stewing in his own sweat. "Nice boner, loser!" I yelled at he struggled to untangle himself from the shrub. I'm sure the owner of the house probably wondered why his swan-shaped bush smelled so funky for a few days after....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part Two: The Heat
After Mom left for work, I flopped myself on the couch and settled in for some quality bad TV. I soon started nodding off to sleep while watching overly coiffed women attempt to sell me a blender that could slice AND dice AND chop. I drifted in and out of bizarre dreams until a loud thud kicked me back into reality. I rubbed my eyes, adjusted my second morning woody of the day, and walked over to the window that overlooked the backyard. A shiny red pickup was parked at an angle in our driveway and there was a giant pile of wood beams sitting on the grass. Two men were currently heaving more planks to add to the pile and each crashing load of wood threw up a small cloud of dust.
The older man was in his fifties and had a sprinkling of gray in his hair; clearly, he was Sam's dad. The younger man was definitely in his late twenties, judging by the thick scruff on his face; this was definitely one of those guys who could never look clean-shaven. Neither of the men looked like Sam, which was a relief. Maybe Sam had an older brother and my mom was just mistaken.
I looked at the clock and it was already fifteen past the hour. Sam's dad and brother had probably knocked downstairs and since I'm such a deep sleeper, I had heard nothing. Mom had wanted them to do a quick touch up of the paint on the side of the house itself first, but since they thought no one was home, they had started unloading the raw materials for the guesthouse first. I could already feel the oppressive heat from inside the house, so I was in no hurry to dash outside to help out. I know, I know, I'm a little lazy, but hey, summer is for chillin' out a little. I grabbed the Sahara White paint that Mom had picked out, but since I didn't see any usable rollers, I headed out to see if Sam's dad had brought any.
As I turned the corner towards the backyard, I saw the younger guy's pale back as he yanked a sweatshirt over his head and wiped his brow with it. Sam's dad saw me and waved hello. I was about to ask about painting equipment and suddenly my heart started pounding. The younger guy had turned around and now that I was close, I knew it WAS Sam. Our eyes met and there was a brief glimmer of recognition. And then we both looked away.
Since neither Sam nor I said anything, Sam's father assumed that we didn't know each other and made simple introductions. "I thought you kids went to high school together?"
"It was a big school. Pleased to meet you," Sam said quietly as we shook hands. His eyes jumped from side to side, never actually looking at me directly.
"Same," I said as I too tried to avoid eye contact. I immediately turned to Sam's dad and asked, "Mr. Perry, did you happen to bring a paint roller? All I have is a pretty junky one, so I'm not sure it'll work out."
"We'll be fine. Your mom just wanted the trim on the house repainted, so you won't even need the roller."
"Um...are you sure it's a two-person job?," I asked.
Sam cut it, "Yeah, Dad, I'm sure I could just take care of it."
"Well, there really isn't much to do yet since the foundation for the guest house hasn't even been laid out. Son, I thought you'd appreciate a chance to slack off just a little?"
Sam rolled his eyes. Sam and I walked back toward the house in silence.
Once we got to where I had put down the paint, he blurted out, "I'll paint using the ladder. You can get the lower borders."
"Fine," I said. Sam was clearly trying to put as much distance between us as possible. We mixed the paints and he clambered up the ladder. Even though the temperature was in the high nineties, Sam had put back on his heavy green sweatshirt. I felt uncomfortably hot just looking at him steaming underneath the dense fabric. Was he shy about his body around me? As I picked my way through the limp flower bush toward the wall, I thought about somehow apologizing for what had happened three years ago, but no words came to mind. Somehow, "I'm sorry for running my hands all over your helpless body" just seemed more like a come-on than an apology, don't you think?
While we painted in silence, I suddenly felt a drop of wetness hit my neck. I put my brush down and craned my head up. Sam's face was beet red and his ridiculous scruffy face was beaded with sweat. As I watched, a stream of perspiration rolled out from his shorts and into his ankle socks.
"Sam, do you want something to drink? We have some fresh lemonade or Coke...."
No response.
"It's really hot out...," I added lamely.
"No shit, Sherlock. And you just worry about your little self," he snapped.
Shrugging, I dropped my brush and walked into the the coolness of the house. After frying outside for an hour, even the tepid air of the house felt like a relief. As I took a glass out of the cabinet, I looked outside to see Sam leaning heavily against the ladder. I smiled. A bizarre time to take a nap, but the guy had been working all morning. When he slid off the ladder like a rag doll, I almost dropped my lemonade on the tile floor.
Sam's dad ran over and got to him before I did and said it was just heat stroke. Sam was half-conscious and quietly moaning that his head hurt like a bitch.
"For a bright kid, Sam sure lacks some common sense sometimes. This happened a few weeks ago too. We were fixing up the roof at the Andersons across the street from here and Sam just insisted on having this on. He must have been extra crispy by the time we were done. Makes no sense."
"Yeah, well, maybe he forgot he was wearing it?" I offered pathetically. If only Mr. Perry knew why Sam felt the need to get covered up while near my house.... I hadn't even been home from college then yet.
"Do you mind taking Sam inside the house and just letting him rest a little? I'll finish up the paint job myself."
Sam's eyes flicked open a little and he managed to mutter, "No,....no,......I'm fiiinnnne."
Mr. Perry would have nothing of it and indicated to me that we should just carry him into the house. While his dad grabbed his legs, I held him under the shoulders. We laid him down gently on the couch and stuck a pillow under his head.
"Help me take off some of his clothes."
Excuse me? I turned red as Mr. Perry started loosening Sam's scuffed sneakers. He winced as the shoe came off and a dusty scent of old vinegar drifted into the room.
By now, Sam had fallen into some kind of deep sleep, so he didn't even react when I untied his other shoe and slipped it off.
"You'd think we couldn't afford to get him new socks, the way he wears the same few pairs over and over," Mr. Perry said with a hint of embarrassment.
"Oh, no, I do that too sometimes. It's just...convenient."
Mr. Perry arched an eyebrow at me and then gingerly pulled both of Sam's socks off. The pinkish line where the sock had dug into his pale ankles somehow drew my attention to how dramatically the wispy hairs of his leg stopped abruptly right above the ankle bone. And of course, there was the familiar fan of dark curls on the top of each foot. I handed Mr. Perry a paper bag for the shoes and socks. Up close, I saw that each of Sam's toes now had a little crown of brown fuzz. Now he really had hobbit feet.
"I'm going to head out and get him some Gatorade. The boy needs some electrolytes in him. Can you just give him a little water for now? Not too much," Mr. Perry said as he looked for his car keys.
"Sure thing, Mr. Perry."
"Be back in a jiffy. Call me if you need anything." The front door creaked as I closed the door behind him. When I returned to the living room, Sam had somehow rolled himself off the couch. He was groaning a little and struggling.
"Sam, are you okay? What are you trying to do?"
"Dad, help me get this sweatshirt off." He pushed weakly against the sleeves. There was no way he'd be able to get it off himself, but I sure wasn't going to go down that route.
"Dad?" Sam had managed to get the sweatshirt over his head, so now the hood was empty, like when little kids pretend that they're the Invisible Man. I took a deep breath and helped pull the sweatshirt upward. Even standing over Sam, I could feel a wave of body heat and old sweat just washing over me. The poor guy was really overheated! I had a bizarre thought about trying to cook an egg on Sam. I shook my head.
Sam was still breathing heavily from exerting himself. I balled up the sodden sweatshirt and added it to the bag with his shoes and socks. I took a seat in the chair next to the couch as Sam drifted off into some well-needed restorative sleep.
I suddenly realized that I hadn't recognized Sam for a few reasons. First of all, he had bulked up a little in three years of college. His shoulders were now much more defined, even though he had kept much of the leanness from his high school days. More importantly though, Sam's genes had finally caught up to him. Even with the tank top on, a handful of brown hairs peeked over the collar and a few wisps even speckled his lightly freckled shoulders. Sam coughed a little. I decided to lift Sam back onto the couch before his dad came back from the market. With one arm under his back and the other under his knees, I heaved him back onto the couch. In such close proximity, the familiar muskiness that I had grown to associate with Sam filled my nostrils, along with the gentle scent of a deodorant that had given up the fight and just surrendered to Sam's funk at least an hour ago. At least he had switched from that overly cheery peppermint junk for something more subtle.
Sam shifted onto his side and lay his head onto his right arm. His armpits were even hairier than when I had last seen them; Sam looked like he was hiding a small rodent in his tank top. The wispy pits were no more; I could barely see any of his actual armpit since the thick brown hair completely filled the deep hollow under his arms. Even the underside of his forearm was dusted with small hairs. When Sam sank deeper against his arm, I saw the forest of dark curls part in the middle of his underarm, exposing a pure white valley of soft skin. The pit hair actually continued beyond his underarm and connected with the wispy hairs on the sides of his pecs. When your armpit hair and chest hair decides that they want to merge into a cohesive unit, that's when you KNOW you're a hairy guy.
I jumped when the phone rang. I quickly dodged into the hall to answer it.
"Hi there, this is Mr. Perry. It turns out I'm going to be a little late coming back. Some ASSHOLE just REARENDED me." Clearly, he wasn't talking just for my benefit since Mr. Perry was generally so polite and I heard a shrill teenage guy's voice protesting being called an asshole with the classic, "No, YOU're the asshole."
"Uh, sure. Don't worry about rushing back. Sam is fine now. He's just sleeping it off."
"Just keep an eye on him for me, will you?"
"Of course, Mr. Perry."
"You're a good kid. I'll see you in a bit."
When I walked back into the living room, Sam had somehow taken off his tank top by himself and was using the damp cloth as a pillow. While the kid I knew from high school had had that tiny clump of chest hair, the Sam who was laid out in front of me had a half-inch thick cushion of brown fur that reached across his pecs. In the middle of his chest the hair was matted down with sweat. However, this luxurious hair abruptly stopped below the nipples, leaving a vast expanse of pale skin that just seemed so vulnerable, especially with the nubs of his ribs just arching across the smoothness. Of course, Sam's happy trail had expanded in the last three years. A gentle brown river of hair cascaded across the center of his gently rippled stomach. Silky hairs radiated away from the navel, which was so choked with fine strands that it just looked like a little nub of yarn. Sam had clearly been working hard to get a little six-pack going, but the individual ab muscles were hard to see under the fuzz.
By now, Sam had fully permeated the air with his funk; I could almost see the sour odor drifting off of his body and disapating into the air. He coughed again. Amused, I thought about him getting nauseous from being in hazardous proximity to his own armpits. And it was a fact that his BO had a different quality to it. It's almost as if Sam had graduated from boysweat to full-bodied mansweat, if that makes any sense. I propped the front door open and pulled aside the curtains so I could at least get a draft going. If I didn't get some air circulating in the room, Sam's odor might just knock ME out and Mr. Perry would have two groggy guys to deal with. With the curtains open, a gentle sunlight lit up the room a bit.
All of a sudden, Sam thrashed in his sleep and cried, "No, not there. Not there! Get away from muhhh." His last word was indistinct as he drifted back into deep sleep. What was that all about, I thought. And then he full on yelled, "Untie me and get your fingers out of my fuckin' pits!" Despite myself, I could feel my jeans getting a little tighter as Sam relived some kind of tickling session where he was actually TIED down for tickle torture.
"Fuck you. Pat, I'm going to beat your ass into the ground," he snarled with such vehemence that I almost thought he had woken up. Who was Pat?
Before I could process this sudden Pat reference, Sam arched his back and tumbled off of the couch again while chuckling dementedly. Okay, now this was getting a little too intense. I walked over and put my hands under his shoulders again, ready to lift him back onto the couch. In the midst of his mental struggle with this Pat character, he resisted and I was stuck trying to lever 170 pounds of dead weight. Before I knew it, my right hand slipped (I swear!) and before I knew it, I was holding Sam's upper torso up by one of his furry underarms. I froze, horrified that Sam would wake up. "This isn't what it looks like" is a phrase that has never convinced anyone.
Even though I tried hard to keep my fingers still, Sam was already guffawing and I could feel Sam's panicked sweat just rolling off my fingers and into my palm. Still asleep, he continued to freak out (and I thought I was a deep sleeper!) and as a reflex, pinned my hand under his arm.
"Oh come on, Sam. Just relax, dude" I said aloud.
Somehow THAT quiet statement woke him up. It's weird how people process their own names like some alert signal even in the depths of sleep. In an awkward moment, Sam looked me directly in the eyes as I freed my hand from under his arm.
"Fuck!" he yelled in pain. I looked down and I realized that in my nervousness, I had clenched my hand and pulled out a few bristly hairs from his armpit.
"Sam, I swear, I am being completely honest. Um...this isn't what it looked like..." Lame.
"I know."
"What?" I had expected a black eye or at least a heavy dose of verbal abuse.
A resigned sigh escaped from Sam's mouth. "I know you were just trying to help me back onto the couch. I wasn't completely out of it. I was just having some ridiculous dream about...stuff."
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "About your new girlfriend Pat?" The last I'd heard, Shao had moved on and was dating some Ivy League blockhead.
To my surprise, Sam actually chuckled sadly. "Pat isn't a girl. Patrick's one of my college roommates. I was talking in my sleep, huh?"
"Yeah, a little. Well, more than just talking." I realized I shouldn't have said that.
"What do you mean?" Too late now.
"Um...well, you were squirming and begging Pat to leave you alone."
Silence.
Sam suddenly blurted out, "Remember when you had me pinned in the bush?"
I didn't answer him immediately, even though I knew exactly what he was talking about. I had rehashed that incident in my mind dozens of times at night, sometimes feeling ashamed, but more often than not, it ended up with me having to change my sheets. But looking into Sam's eyes, I just felt awful for taking advantage of his helplessness, so I just looked down at the carpet.
Sam continued, "Well, we both know what happened. We were dumb kids and I planned to pummel your sorry ass into a pulp and you got the best of me. On a certain level, I deserved what you did to me."
I still said nothing, too stunned to react. Over the past three years, I had rehearsed what I would say to Sam when we finally confronted each other, but I had never expected him to say that he DESERVED to be tortured that day. And we hadn't been THAT little, definitely old enough to know better.
Sam finally managed to make eye contact with me before he said in a small voice, "But with Pat, it's different."
"What do you mean?" I finally said.
He seemed almost relieved that I had responded. What had gotten into Sam?
"Well, Pat, he...um...it's just completely out of nowhere with him. Within ten minutes of my moving into the dorm room, he had already grabbed me on the sides. Pat claimed that that's how he says hello, but since I reacted so strongly, he kept escalating his attacks, finding every excuse to tickle me. I mean, literally, every excuse. One day, Pat said that I stink up the unit with my BO and that for every day I don't shower, I had to let him tickle me in a spot of his choosing for five minutes."
"But you're not a puny guy, Sam. Why don't you just keep him away from you?" Or use stronger deodorant, I thought to myself.
Sam explained, now speaking more boldly since he could tell that I sympathized with him, (Why wouldn't I? I knew how sensitive this guy was to any kind of tickling) "Well, I would have told him to fuck off, especially since who actually showers every day, you know? And I know you're thinking I ought to use a can of Axe or two. But I do! I always put some on afterwards." Old habits died hard, apparently.
"But my other roommate Adrian agreed with Pat that I stunk up the room. In the beginning, I just refused to give in, but when I didn't go willingly, they both just dragged me out of bed and it becomes ten minutes of hell while Adrian holds me down or helps Pat truss me up. They're both such sick fucks."
Knowing how bad Sam could smell even when he did shower once a day, I could almost envision why Adrian went along with this "arrangement."
"I don't understand. Does Pat watch you walk to the shower? How does he even know?"
Sam looked embarrassed, but he responded with just a small pause of hesitation. "Well, uh, he checks me."
"What does that mean?" I was starting to feel sorry for the guy before he even answered.
"Sometime during the day, he...err....has me put my arms over my head and he'll rub his fingers in my pits and smell them. If I pass the 'smell test,' I'm good for the day." Pat was apparently some kind of crazed fascist, but he knew what he was doing. Whether or not Sam showered on any particular day, Pat still got to feel up his armpits. I know it's twisted, but I have to admit that I was a little jealous.
Sam continued, "And what's worse is that I have intramural soccer in the afternoons, so even if I shower in the mornings, I'm a little fragrant when Pat comes back from class. So I sweat a little when I play soccer, so what?" I almost smiled when I realized that Sam was for the most part completely oblivious to how awful he smelled after any kind of exercising.
I waited for Sam to continue, not wanting to sound too eager. I had no idea why Sam had decided to confide in me, but I wasn't about to stop him. I preemptively grabbed a pillow from the couch and placed it over my lap. If Sam realized how much this was churning my nether bits, I'm sure he would have stopped.
"It's so fuckin' unfair. Pat started making more rules, since he said that I really wasn't learning my lesson. By then, I didn't even have the willpower to resist since I knew that Pat could call in Adrian to force me to do anything. He said that I would have to let him tickle me willingly and that each time I tried to protect the body part du jour, he would add ten seconds to the total time I'd be tickled."
This Pat really was a sadistic motherfucker. Not only did he want to grope Sam whenever he wanted to, but he also insisted dominating his mind.
"What does 'willingly' mean? I thought you had already resigned yourself to the fact?"
"It's all these crazy mind games, like he'll have me put my feet in his lap and he'll start off with just one finger running up and down my feet while his other hand is just running through the hair on my legs, but as soon as I get used to this, he'll go wild with all of his fingers under my toes with no warning. Of course, I tear my feet away in surprise, but Pat will just grin and add ten seconds to the timer for every second that I'm trying to recover. Or he'll throw off my concentration by yanking the little hairs from my toes. But the worst days are when he decides to go for my pits, man." I realized that Sam was now a lot more comfortable talking about the most sensitive part of his body.
"He makes me stand in the doorframe without a shirt on and hold onto the top of the door. And he makes me ask HIM to tickle my pits. What kind of kinky shit is that? If I don't say 'Please tickle my armpits' quickly or loudly enough, he'll just smile faux sadly and tap another ten seconds into the timer. And then he'll stand behind me and pull the same shit like with my feet, where he'll just slowly brush his fingers along the hair in my armpits until I get sensitized enough for him to just plunge in and tickle the crap out of me."
"So Pat doesn't tie your arms up?" I asked even as I suspected what would happen.
"The sick fuck will just add more time If I drop my arms down to my sides. And he insists on leaving his hands in my pits until I stretch them above my head again. He says he's doing me a favor by teaching me to trust other people, but of course the instant my arms are up, he'll restart his cycle and start lightly ruffling my underarm hairs again before starting the rough stuff."
I still had no idea why Sam was telling me all of this. By now, I was practically ready to explode in my shorts and Sam still had these sad doe eyes, which somehow made me even hornier. Hey, I'm not a saint, never said I was.
"Dude, I know this sounds weird considering our…dynamic, but I need your help with Pat."
"Um...sure. I really can't promise I can cut up the limbs or help you hide the body though."
This finally broke the tension as he laughed in relief. "No, man, I need you to tickle me, for a few days at least"
I was clearly having some kind of delusion from the heat. "Excuse me?"
"No, I'm serious. With you, the tickling was different. It wasn't malicious."
"Man, I held you down against your will and fucking took advantage of you." That didn't sound too great now that I had said it aloud.
Sam was nonplussed. "No, I need you to train me. I'm completely a pushover when it comes to Pat since he's totally in my head."
"Complain to the school and get a new roommate," I suggested. This was a pretty generous move on my part, considering what I thought Sam was offering to let me do.
"Oh yeah, man, that'll sound real cool when it shows up in the paper or when people start talking shit. 'Student files complaint about getting tickled silly' isn't a headline I want to see. And I don't want to be known as the guy who couldn't handle some childish game." Even if Sam did have a point about his reputation, this was probably at the heart of Sam's sensitivity to tickling. Although most people seem to become less ticklish as they grow out of the teenage years, it's always the wannabe tough guys who stay ticklish or get even more so, well into their twenties.
"So why don't YOU move out?"
"My lease isn't up for another semester and I'm not going to find cheaper digs."
"You're willing to get molested to save on rent?"
"Fuck you, man. I don't know why you're protesting so much. We both know how much you love it. You're probably getting rock hard just thinking about touching my pits and my feet." This was true, but I wasn't about to admit it.
I changed the subject. "It just doesn't make sense. How does my tickling you help you with Pat?"
"It's called transference. Freud came up with it. Currently, I have it ingrained in me that I am completely at Pat's mercy. Even though I can talk about it now, if Pat showed up right now, I'd throw my feet into his lap if he asked me to. It's like I'm a zombie or something."
"You make it sound like some kind of voodoo curse or magic spell. Harry Potter much?"
"Shut up and let me finish. You think this is easy for me? Alright, so if I can my mental lock broken by transferring it to you, Pat won't be able to do shit to me."
I was about to protest that this didn't make any logical sense, even if Sam was a Psych major and had learned some crazy pop psychology theory, but Sam talked over me. "Of course, you'd also need to help me get revenge on this little shit." He grinned. "When I first moved in and Pat tickled me, I gave him a jab on his sides and he jumped for the heavens, so maybe after I get my sanity back, a dose of his own medicine is in order."
I was now more sure than ever that I was probably unconscious and on the floor of my house. Not only was Sam offering to let me tickle the shit out of him as a favor to HIM, we would also be orchestrating something vicious for Pat. And as much as tickling in general gets my nads aching, it's revenge tickling that really makes my knees weak.
Of course, at that moment, Mr. Perry finally shows up at the house and saunters into the room holding three Gatorades.
"I had a four-pack from the market, but I got really winded from screaming at the little bitc....at the other driver, so I needed a boost," Sam's dad said. "Sam, how's your head? Ready to paint a little before you faint again?"
Sam jokingly punched his dad on the arm as he smiled at me. I grinned back, knowing that I would really enjoy the rest of the summer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part Three: The Feet
Part three:
Over the course of a week, we hammered, we drilled, we used tools that I had never heard of before, but Mom's guesthouse was finally taking shape. The weather stayed blistering hot, but we were careful to have plenty of chilled liquids close at hand and of course, Sam stopped wearing the thick sweatshirts. Mr. Perry frequently gave us tasks to do together, and time passed quickly with someone to joke with and of course, to make fun of. Since the talk after his heat stroke, Sam had not brought up anything remotely related to tickling or to Pat. Considering the fact that I wasn't even sure that crazy talk had even happened, I was content just to enjoy Sam's company. I had taken advantage of Sam once already, so if he still supposedly needed my "help," I decided I would wait for him to speak up.
The following Friday, Sam asked if he could stay over for the night and watch a movie. I arched an eyebrow at him because (1) Sam and I had NEVER hung out and (2) "stay over for the night" seemed so loaded with innuendo, that I didn't even want to go there. He returned my look with a serious nod. We both burst out laughing at how ridiculous this was; we were both college students and we still had the instinct of finding a cover story for having someone come over.
"Tonight's perfect actually. My mom's headed out with some of her girlfriends after work, so she won't walk in on you tied up in the basement," I said matter-of-factly.
Sam's eyes widened as he looked around quickly to see if anyone had heard. "Hey, asshole, let's uh try to keep this discreet, yeah?"
At around six in the evening, Sam knocked at the front door.
"So what movie did you bring?" I asked.
"Uh...are we actually watching a movie? Let's just do this shit."
"What? You don't need to get in the mood?"
Sam turned a little red from embarrassment, but then he just whipped off his t-shirt in one fluid movement. Now he just wearing a pair of loose cargo shorts. "I thought we'd work on my lower body today."
"You do realize that lower body refers to the bottom half of the body. So you can keep your shirt on, dude."
"It's hot in here, DUDE."
I shrugged and pointed him towards the basement. As he turned around and tucked his shirt into a pocket, I noticed the little patch of hairs on his lower back right above the waistline. "There's some random rope and junk down there that I'm sure we can use."
"Nah, I need this to be a voluntary thing. If I'm going to work on my mental stamina, I really don't think I should be tied down at all."
"Alright, but if you slug me, your ass is mine."
"You would like that, wouldn't you?"
In the basement, Sam lay down on the junky table that used to be in the dining room. He quickly slipped off his flip flops and handed me a set of shoelaces.
"Tie my big toes together with the laces. That'll keep my feet from rocking around too much and you'll be able to get me under the toes."
I gave Sam another look. This was the most bizarre scenario I had ever been in. Not only was I about to torture Sam out of his mind, but he was going to instruct me on how to do it.
Sam continued, "So we're going to go for a fifteen minute session. If I lift my feet out of your lap, you get to add another minute. Make sense?"
I just grinned at him and sat down on the workbench facing the table
Sam breathed out a deep breath and lay down flat before closing his eyes. "You can start the clock whenever you start...um...tickling my feet."
I still couldn't believe this shit was actually going down. I leaned back against the basement wall, letting Sam stew in his nervousness. Since his eyes were shut, I let my eyes just wander across his furry little chest. With his hands against his sides, his armpit hair still puffed out comically from under his arms. Sam was trying to maintain an even breathing pattern, so I watched his fuzzy navel as it rose and fell with his exhalations and inhalations. I got up from the workbench and tiptoed over until I was a foot away from his body.
"Uh, thanks for taking your sweet time, jackass," he called out.
He jumped a little when I responded from right next to him. "Does it really help for you to keep your eyes closed?"
"Just get on with it."
I sat on the table and put his feet in my lap. He had probably showered before coming over, but his feet already had a slight tang of salty sweat to them. Probably just nerves, I smiled to myself.
I placed my hands on his knees and slowly starting running my hands down his shins. The scratchy brown hairs flowed through my fingers as I felt his well-muscled calves. As I moved up his legs, Sam started breathing a little faster. I took my hands off. After waiting a few seconds (probably an eternity to Sam), I put just one finger on the outside edge of his hairy thighs, right where his shorts started. I brushed past the thickening whorls of hair as I meandered slowly up into the damp darkness. Once I was about an inch from his crotch, I started scratching gently at the furry skin. As I actually started tickling his inner thigh in earnest, Sam almost kicked me in the chin as his legs shot straight up from my lap.
"Shit, man, you're getting some penalty time for that. Watch the head."
Sam said nothing and just replaced his feet in my lap. I jumped in immediately under his toes and spidered my fingers across the balls of his feet. Surprised, Sam shrieked and almost threw himself off the table.
"Sucks to be you. Now we're at fifteen minutes again."
I traced a finger from his heel to the toes and watched as his toes tried their hardest to protect themselves. As I sped up the movement, Sam shuddered a bit. Apparently, he was going for the "holding it in" strategy again. I decided to mix it up a bit to throw him off. As my fingers danced furiously across his right foot, I used my left hand to just stroke the fan of thick hairs on the top of his other foot. When I reversed what my hands were doing, Sam suddenly burst out with a loud chuckle as his legs again sprang away from me.
"We're never going to get out of here, you know."&l
