Two miles away from The Hollywood Hills …
My first surprise came in the form of my agent telling me that he wouldn’t be the one doing the tickling.
“Oh,” I rubbed the back of my head, “I uhh, I thought the whole point of this was so you could get a kick outta —”
— My reservations were put on hold when an additional person arrived at the warehouse.
Your best friend, Timmy.
A man called ‘Miller’.
Back then, he wasn’t the grey haired, well suited, silver fox he is now.
When I first met him I think he had just turned thirty, a few years older than you are now, Chalamet.
He wore a tight black t-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots.
He was lean and energetic, he practically bounced towards me, a rucksack clinging to his back.
I could tell that he wanted to intimidate me by the way he shook my hand.
His grasp was tight, the shake tough, his icy coloured eyes glaring directly into my own.
I’d shaken hands with Arnold Schwarzenegger, so his attempt felt humorous, to say the least.
I gave back with just as much might, a grin on my face.
He liked that I showed gusto, confidence, a cheekiness he may not have expected …
… Almost as if me displaying those qualities gave him some kind of challenge, a goal to achieve …
He wanted to destroy me, to reduce me to the opposite of how I presented myself; he wanted to turn the self assuredness into doubt, the tall-ness of my height into something small, my wide smile into something wider, something more manic, something I could not control …
To me he was already a a different kind of ‘being’.
An otherworldly force that I could tell was about to escort me into an experience I’ll never forget.
An experience I still to this day remember as if it happened moments ago.
His next set of words cemented my theories.
“Are you ready for your life to change?”
He wasn’t referring to my role as Jack, Titanic as a movie, the Leomania that was about to ignite, launching me into the stratosphere of household-name levels of celebrity.
He was talking about what I’d become, what I’d start to want, what I’d feel after these two hours were over.
My agent, reluctantly, says his goodbye.
I can see how much he wants to be a part of this.
His newly attained ‘membership’ doesn’t seem to phase him.
Watching me walk side by side with Miller into the depths of the warehouse, behind closing doors - heck, I’ll never forget the longing look on his face.
After the doors swing shut I find myself staring at a giant leather chair-like device positioned in the middle of the room.
It looks like the kinda seat I would’ve been forced on when visiting the dentist as a kid, only this one has arms stretching out either side and open stocks attached to the bottom.
There are padded restraints buckled to each arm, there are chains dangling against the wall, a polaroid camera placed on a rusty stool opposite this looming structure …
It’s stuffy in here; the floor is concrete, the walls open brickwork, the ceiling crumbling.
Before I ask to open the window, Miller is doing it for me.
The air clears thanks to a welcoming breeze.
I run my hands though my thick head of hair.
“I guess that’s for me?” I nod to the chair.
Miller pats my back and shrugs his rucksack to the ground.
“Don’t worry. It’s to keep you from punching out, or kicking me in the face,” he winks.
I smirk, folding my arms across my chest.
“So you’re tying me down? That detail wasn’t in the paper work.”
Miller uses his power against me.
It’s so easily done.
I know you know, he’s done it to you before. He’s doing it to you right now, with the position he’s put you in, with your boyfriend.
It’s clever, whilst also not being clever at all.
Clever is unseen, unsuspicious, untimed …
What Miller does is blatant, obvious, predictable, but it works …
“Do you want Titanic or not?”
It’s a shot to the knee, it renders me speechless, I am uncertain with what to say back.
I find myself lowering my head, my arms now dangling at my sides.
I blink, purse my lips, stick my thumbs into my jean pockets.
“Of course,” I mumble, kicking some shards of glass against the wall.
Miller cackles in success.
“Then take off your t-shirt and climb in, ‘Caprio!”
I chuckle in disbelief and begin to do as he says.
I won’t lie to you, Timmy. I was … kinda excited.
I’d never done anything like this before.
I’d never felt so important, so wanted, so lusted after - all for being a little ticklish.
It was unique, strange, interesting … Different.
I yank off my tee and drop it to the floor.
Unlike today, back in the 90’s, I was pretty slim.
My torso was boyish and tanned, smooth and hairless, even at twenty one years old.
It was why I got the leading part in Romeo & Juliet - the director wanted someone who could a) act Shakespeare and b) be the representation of angelic grace.
Miller doesn’t want me because of those reasons, he makes that clear as soon as I climb into the chair.
“You scream ticklish, kid,” there’s the reason, “You ever been tickled, whilst tied up?” He asks.
I shake my head.
“No,” I chime innocently, “This is all new to me …”
He doesn’t do it as much anymore, maybe because he’s older, maybe because he’s learned a lot …
But back then, Miller used to ask a lot of questions.
“You ever had your feet worshipped?”
I laugh and shake my head into my chest as he begins to strap my arm to the left extension of the chair.
“No!”
He moves behind me and loops my necklace under his index finger.
“Whose the lucky lady?”
I’ve shaken my head so much now that some of my hair has fallen over my face.
“I bought it for myself.”
I grin as I feel Miller curl around like some kind of snake - I’m cringing, my toes curling tight within the confines of my sneakers - man, this guy is weird …
He straps up my right arm.
“You could’ve turned this down. You could’ve done a screen test, like all the other actors applying for this role. Why didn’t you?”
He nudges my heels upward my pressing his knuckles against the rubber soles of my footwear.
I lift my feet in thought, Miller’s hands taking hold of my ankles as he positions them into the open stocks.
“I like taking risks,” I admit, “Did you offer the same thing to the others?”
Miller closes the stocks, locking the latch at the side, securing my ankles in place.
“Nope. Only you, risk taker.”
I am now fully restrained to the chair.
I pause for a second.
“Why only me?”
Miller paces around me, never taking his eyes off my face.
“Because you’re one in a million, Leo. You’re special. In thirty years time people will look back at your face, as it is now, and they’ll ache. They’ll mother fucking ache …”
I feel my mouth fall open.
“I have to have you,” he continues unapologetically, “Before the rest of the world takes that glow in your eyes, that youthful beauty, that iconic smile.”
I cock an eyebrow as he sucks on his index finger.
“This time next year … ” he declares, “… Titanic will be a box office sensation and every single person on this planet will be speaking your name. Whilst you are thrown roses by strangers, I will be here, tormenting another man needing something I can provide with ease, but I will quite happily only be thinking of you …”
His words are a love letter.
They are dedicated, intense and filled with passion.
They are obsessive.
He is like a visitor from the future, he is so convincing. I remember thinking, ‘I can’t be anywhere else, other than where I am right now.’
I watch him point that index finger, now coated in saliva, in a slow and gradual reach where I witness it press against the depths of my left underarm.
I can’t control the unexpected thrash I act out within the chair.
I see what he means about the restraints - if I weren’t tied down, I would’ve jumped into the ceiling after punching him in the face.
The chair shifts an inch across the floor.
I huff as I narrow my eyes at the index finger still in my armpit.
“No, don’t—” I chuckle, surprised in myself - I didn’t expect to beg so soon.
“Don’t?… ” He says his words as if he has said them dozens of times before, “… We’ve barely started …”
He wiggles his finger against a spot within my underarm that delivers such a mind blowing feeling of pleasure mixed with agony, that I wonder what is even true anymore.
I throw my head back, I bend my knees, I twist into his touch.
“Damn these restraints!” I tug at my bondage, already bitter at their existence.
The finger wiggling gets harder, he is smiling from ear to ear.
My eyes widen with a scowl that urges and wills what he is doing to just end, to stop, to not continue for a second longer.
“Stop!” I laugh, my fists curling into balls, “Okay, I need a moment!” I really do need a moment …
He giggles like a school boy.
“This is better than I imagined,” he announces, as he makes his way towards my feet, “You are viscerally ticklish. John is going to love you.”
I shuffle forwards, already breathless.
“John? Who, who’s—”
—He begins to unlace my right sneaker.
“Fresh kicks,” he licks his lips, “Are these the new Air Max?”
I nod quickly, clearing my throat, peering over the stocks in anticipation.
I reassure myself that my feet aren’t that ticklish.
Getting pedicures is one of my monthly treats.
I sit there bored, playing my Game Boy - if I can take that, this should be a breeze.
I relax as he tugs away my Nike.
“I’ll be pushing you to your absolute limit,” he decides casually, analysing the inside of my sneaker, I’m not sure why, “Our time together will only be this once. The flip side to offering a lee everything is that you have nothing else to perk their interest when you want to do it a second, third, fourth time …” he begins to unlace my left sneaker, “… So, I’ll need to make the most of you, whilst I have you.”
I’m aware of how confused I look - back then, I ignorantly assumed my offer was a one off, that he had only chosen me.
“Who’s Lee?”
Oh man, I was so clueless.
Before I can expose my naivety any further, Miller demonstrates the sneaky side of his tickling methods by fingering my toes as he removes my sneaker.
I launch forwards, the wrist restraints keeping my arms behind me.
I twist my feet inward with such strength I could’ve swore I pulled a muscle in my ankle.
“Hey!”
Miller allows my squirming foot to shake the rest of my sneaker off.
I will gravity not to take it to the floor.
He continues to scratch his finger between my toes, its rigid shape pressing into the thick material of my sock.
“Okay! Stop it!” I shout as if he’ll listen, as if he will actually stop, just because I so fiercely asked.
I find myself laughing hard, without even thinking to do so - the sound erupts out of me without my consent, as if its taken from me, all thanks to one finger.
He steps back and claps his hands.
“You really are a super star!”
He then places both of his palms over the tops of my socked feet.
I jolt.
The chair creaks.
His palms are hot, I can feel the warmth through the cotton.
How can he do this to me?
How can he make me feel so helpless, so sensitive?
He curls his fingers around the ends of my socks.
Five around my left, five around my right.
I wince as I watch him pull both socks away from my feet.
The white elastic stretches enough for him to need to take a few steps back.
They ping away from the tips of my toes.
“Ah!” I chew my lower lip, “… Come on …” my hair is already a little damp, my face shines with perspiration.
He looks excited as he throws the socks over his shoulder.
“My oh my …” he looks at my feet as if they’re treasure; some undiscovered find, some whispered beauty unseen till now.
You see, Timmy. This was before wikifeet.
Before you could just google someones dogs and get pictures of them within seconds.
You’d rely on photoshoots from magazines, or barefoot scenes from the films or TV shows I was in, to catch a glimpse of my feet. You’d have to rewind the VHS, pause the moment on your television set.
I understand now, why Miller was so in awe.
It wasn’t just because my feet were flawless, well kept, soft looking, a perfect size …
It’s because it was such a rarity to see them, to be so close to feet so famous, so intensely sought after …
He is so overwhelmed he has to produce evidence of this moment.
He picks the polaroid camera up from the stool.
He places it by his face and closes one eye.
“Point your toes,” he practically dribbles as he speaks.
I do as I’m told.
There’s a click, a flash, a polaroid is produced.
He takes it from the camera and flaps it in the air.
“Fantastic!”
I adjust myself in the seat, un-point my toes, Miller’s language nudging me to ask my next question.
“So uh, you uh, you do this for a hobby?” I gasp, quick to rectify what I mean, “The, the photography! I mean. Not the uh, not the tickl—”
“—I’m a freelancer,” he interrupts, “I’ve got some big jobs lined up this year. Working with some pop stars, some models. One day I’ll have my own studio, in New York …” he admires the polaroid and shows it to me, “… You look good in the chair. Such a fucking handsome guy. Those soles? Damn. You got it, kid.”
I turn to face the ceiling, mostly to hide my blush.
I feel weird that he’s made me feel good, by complimenting my feet.
I bite my lower lip and pretend he never said anything.
He puts the camera and polaroid back on the stool.
He lifts the stool and moves it aside.
I scrunch my toes and raise my head as he returns to my feet, his cowboy boots crunching over the ground as he walks.
“Hey, quit it, come on, man …”
He laughs in joyous entertainment.
“You’re asking me to quit something you signed up for! Get into it!”
I’m already panting.
“I know, I, I know, it’s just … I’m a little more ticklish than I thought … Go easy, alright?”
Miller shakes his head.
“That’s not how we work.”
He takes both of his index fingers and presses one over the sole of my right foot, one over the sole of my left.
The touch is electric; it causes my feet to wiggle, my legs to kick.
“We?” I am once again taken by surprise.
He begins to wiggle each finger; the fingers starts at my arch and work their way up to my toes, where they then journeys down to my heels.
The touch is soft, it’s light, it isn’t aggressive …
“Hey! Alright, stop it—”
It’s enough to make me squirm, so much so the chair I sit in rattles and creaks, my arms now tugging at the wrist restraints.
“No, come on, stop it!”
I can barely stand this.
I remember thinking that very thought.
How can I do this for a whole hour?
I was so convinced it would be straight forward.
I was such a dick!
My legs feel warm beneath my Levis.
I dread any time he gets closer to my toes.
I keep them scrunched up, keep them protected, he won’t get between …
He hits a spot across each arch that causes my toes to splay, whether I want them to or not.
“Oh! Oh my god!”
He has complete control over me.
He is making my body do things; he has my toes, my fingers, my hands and feet, ankles and wrists on strings.
I am his puppet, his play thing.
With my toes stretched out in panic, his fingers jump at the chance.
They scratch between my left big toe and left index toe.
I yelp, “Hey! Oh shit, my toes?” I am discovering how ticklish they are as each second goes by, “My damn toes!”
My feet thrash inwards, outwards, they point forwards, to the ceiling, to the floor, my calves ache …
My feet have never writhed this much, my teeth have never clenched this hard.
“Grrrrahh! Grrrr! Mnn! Mnnn!”
I only realise how tight I’m containing my laughter when I fall short of breath.
I splutter and heave, only to catch this intense ball of energy at the back of my throat once again.
How is this possible? How is this happening? How is this real?
I start to resent my level of ticklishness.
I knew I was a 7, maybe an 8.
But Miller explores in such a way that I become a 10.
Maybe I was always a 10 …
Maybe Miller just needed to discover that for me, for him, so he could transform me into the breathless state I am now, restrained to this device, my feet flapping from side to side with such might that Miller becomes frustrated.
“You’re a fighter,” he growls.
He grabs my left foot and holds it still.
“Gah!” My toes flex so hard the little one twitches.
He uses his spare hand to scribble his fingernails across my sole.
I remember feeling my eyes almost bulge out of my head. The high pitched volume of my scream. The way my body hurtled towards him, how it was so expertly contained within the chair.
I remember the squeak of the leather, the way my laughter and shouting would echo within this empty room within this abandoned warehouse.
“Holy shhhhhhit!” I remember not being able to compartmentalise my understanding towards the sensation caused by just scribbling against the bottom of my foot, “Oh man, you’re driving me crazy!” I remember just needing it to end, whilst also enjoying it in more ways than I can describe, “I gotta get outta here!” I even tried to escape, pulling my hands through my cuffs, watching them remain restrained no matter how much strength I put into my efforts, “Holy shit, this sucks, dude!” I remember thinking that yelling out the obvious could make things easier, but it just made him go harder, it just fuelled an already burning fire …
I remember how tight my chest felt when he finally stepped away.
I wheezed and I heaved, my skin vibrating with a heat caused by the afternoon warmth, as well as what I had just experienced.
I shuffle upward as he makes his way towards my right side.
“Hoh, hold on, lemme catch my breath,” I jump away from him the best my restraints will allow as he toys with me, going to touch my right armpit, his fingers remaining inches away, “No! Wait, man! Seriously! Lemme catch my breath!” I repeat, this time with a sterner tone to my shout.
I learnt so much that day.
But the main thing I learned, the main take away from my time with Miller, was that he represented the meaning of ‘tickle torment’.
He showcased no mercy, an act of relentless focus, a determined ability to remain true to his promise.
I’ll be pushing you to your absolute limit.
Without giving me much time for a break, Miller arrives behind me.
“No, come on, lemme go!” I laugh at myself, I know my pleas fall on deaf ears, but it was different to what I thought it would be, “Untie me! Lemme go!” I wanted out.
He goes for my armpits, both of them at the same time.
He is working my underarms with all ten fingers, five in my left, five in my right.
You know how it is, Timmy - it’s a game changer, when you’re tickled like that!
I was no longer me, whilst at the same time, I was in that moment, the very core of me, the very essence of ‘me’.
I displayed something I didn’t even know existed; something raw, something animalistic, something desperate and harsh, something that lived undisturbed till now, in the caverns of my physical and mental state.
It took over me; it made me grunt and shriek, it made me giggle so non stop I felt like a mad man, it made me squirm and stretch, bend and flex, writhe and kick in ways I had never done so before.
It made my stomach hurt.
I remember my older cousins tapping into that ‘something’ when I was a teenager.
One knelt down over my wrists, my arms pinned to the carpet above my head, the other straddled my waist.
I can’t even tell you why they did it.
They just did, for laughs, for no other reason than some boyish fun.
They ravaged my ribcage and underarms, tickled me till I almost peed my pants; they used both hands, so that’s what? Twenty fingers at once?
My Dad walked in; he could see the hysterical anguish on my face, how red my cheeks had boiled. How owned I looked. I thought he’d help me.
He joined in.
That was tame, compared to this.
I shoot furious looks down to each armpit, “—Gah! Get outta there!—” I spit and foam, my shoulders lifting and dropping as I wriggle my torso and kick once, twice, three times into the stocks, “—It’s too much, man! I can’t take it, I I can’t breathe!—” I have never been tickled like this before, I’ve lost track of time, I have to picture a sinking ship as a reminder that this will lead to something, this isn’t hell for no reason, “—Oh god, you bastard! Oh, come on! You damn sonovabitch!—”, I can’t quite believe it, I am flabbergasted and shocked, my giggles now grainy and hoarse, “—Stop, oh god, please!—” I plea, my squirming within the chair now delivered with such vigour that the chair itself has begun to lift from the floor, “—I’m gonna tip this thing over!—” I warn … You see, for a slender guy, I was actually far stronger than I looked, “—I’m gonna tip this thing over!—”
My threats cause Miller to stop.
He slides away from behind me and walks back to my feet.
“This, this isn’t funny,” my laughter was once contained, how it’s spilling out of my mouth, trickling down my neck, I talk in gibberish, I giggle incessantly, I can barely speak, “Co, come on, man, qu, quit it, alright? Hey! Hoh, how long is left?” Wow, Miller is soaked in perspiration, this is a work out for him too, “I’m too ticklish, alright? This is torture … ” I admit confidently, hoping my honest revelations create some sympathy within his methods, “Take some more pictures, huh?” I nod at the stool, “Go get your damn camera,” I chuckle.
Miller gets down on his knees, beside his bag.
He unzips the rucksack.
He produces two individual lengths of string.
I shuffle forwards again.
“Wait, what’s that f—”
I gasp as he begins to loop one length of string around my left big toe.
“Hey! No, what are you doing—” My foot twitches automatically, before I start to stretch it to the right, “There’s no way you’re—” I bite my upper lip, “—Mnn, hey! Don’t do it!—” Miller ties my big toe back against the stock, whilst silently continuing to do the same to my right, “Mnn! Hey, stop that! I, I can’t move my feet!” I forgot how much I stated the obvious back then, “I, I can’t move my f, f, f—” I huff and slouch into the seat, throwing a strop as I acknowledge how fixed into position my feet have become, my blue eyes glancing up at Miller, who smirks down at me, “—You bitch—” I smirk.
He flashes his eyebrows and grins at me.
I continue to learn.
Don’t call him names, I remember telling myself.
It gives him justification, a valid reason behind why he goes so hard.
With my feet only able to twist and flex a few inches, I find the next few minutes borderline unbearable to endure.
As he uses both hands to explore my soles, he locates ticklish spots around my second to last toes, just under each of my arches and around the bottom of my heels; I look back at how much I thrashed, how much I hurtled within the chair, how much I leaped out of my seat - holy shit! I was one ticklish mother fucker! If I had known I was that ticklish, I probably would’ve given Titanic to Matthew McConaughey, like it was originally planned. But no, there I sat, chained up and fucking tickled beyond belief, my giggles and laughter now so panicked and filled with alarm that begging becomes my only way of communicating, the only thing I’m capable of doing, the only thing that make sense.
“Stop! That’s enough, that’s enough, that’s enough!”
I am laughing so hard I’ve developed abs.
“I swear to god, I’m gonna bite you, man!”
I snap my teeth at him, when he returns to my upper body.
If his hands or arms get anywhere close to my face, I use it as a chance to reach forwards and try to nip at his flesh.
“Ohh, you’re like a piranha!” He taunts.
He’s back at my underarms, combing my armpit hair with his fingertips, it drives me wild.
“Get offa me, man! I can’t take it! Lemme go! Please! Stop it!”
I hear my begs, my whines, my giggling. I no longer recognise myself, mostly because I’ve never known myself like this.
I take it back.
He is clever.
He works me like a pot of clay.
He knows when I’m blown away, when I can’t resist any longer, when I’m about to crash, when I can take it a bit more.
He is shaping me.
He takes it down a few gears and starts playfully blowing raspberries over my stomach.
I laugh, finding the ordeal horrifying and then suddenly funny, still squirming and wriggling, but not in a way that suggests I’ll die if it continues.
He licks my navel, he strokes my chest, he pinches my nipples.
“How are you doing this!” My vision is blurred, I find myself wishing a timer had been set, I think it may have been thirty minutes, but the realist in me suggests ten, maybe less, “This is more than just tickling, man! Come on, untie me, lemme out!”
He needs to stop himself, to catch his own breath.
He wipes sweat from his upper lip.
He pats the side of my face with a clammy palm.
“How you feeling, kid?” He asks me with genuine curiosity; he seems mesmerised by my lack of knowing, the way I thought I could handle this, the way I clearly can not handle this …
I remember not knowing what to say, not knowing how to describe my circumstance.
“This movie better be worth it!” I chortle into my chest as I feel my necklace fall from my lower lip, it must’ve landed over my mouth with all the thrashing, “This your idea of taking it easy?” I jab, intentional in my sharp tongue, by this point I’m a strong mix of wanting to test him, whilst expressing how pissed off I am, “What’s next, huh? What, what are you gonna do next?—”, I watch him constantly, jittering in my seat, my eyebrows burrowed into a deep frown as my startled gaze follows him, where he arrives at my left side, “—Come on, tell me, I gotta know—”
“—I’m so glad I found you,” he licks his index finger again, sucking on its length, “My tickler, the guy in charge, he’s been searching for the most ticklish man on the face of this earth,” just like how it began, he returns his touch to my left pit, pressing into the warmth of my underarm, “I think you’re it …”
My torso twists into itself, the straps around my wrists squeak, I try to close up the gap that makes up my armpit by pinning my elbow to my waist, but my body doesn’t bend that way.
I say nothing; my tremble, my determined expression, my pressed together lips are enough to say, ‘no, please, stop’.
To get me to thrash outward, he uses his free hand to poke into my hip - it works, I immediately spin the other way, unintentionally opening my left underarm, giving him access to the depths of my pit - he doesn’t hesitate, his fingers are shaped into claws, he dives right in.
My body spasms as he attacks, the laughter and shouts yanked from my insides, the chair shifting once again across the concrete.
I find myself wriggling violently from side to side as he infiltrates both of my underarms, his grip on the sensitive flesh that makes up the centre of each armpit enduring a high pressure wiggle from the strength of his fingers.
“—Oh god!—” I gasp, panting and huffing, my butt bouncing over the leather as my toe ties keep my feet in place, “—Oh god, stop!—” my face is red and swollen, my grin and smile distorted and forced into a gleeful shape, “—You’re killing me!—” disbelief now owns me as a person, it has a grip on me, it refuses to let go, “—Why are you doing this!—” because you agreed to it, you dumbass, you signed on the dotted line, you gave up yourself, just so you could star in some stupid movie no one is gonna care about, “—Whoo, whoo, whoo wants to watch a film about a sinking ship anyway!—” I throw myself from left to right, now talking to myself, no longer making sense as I giggle into my shoulder, always trying to nip and bite at his arms, my forehead and nose always trying to nudge and push him away, “—Please, I’m begging you, just stop!” I breathe in hard, even if my lungs burn as I do so, “—PLEASE!—” I expel that word in the form of a high pitched squeal.
I slump forwards, my hands hanging limply from my wrist restraints, as he steps aside and walks back to my feet.
“I can’t decide where to focus,” he was a little less controlled as he is now, a little more easily distracted, “Your armpits are too glorious to neglect, but your feet are too beautiful not to tickle … How about we play a game …” he pinches my right big toe, “… This little piggy went to the market …”
I hiss and thrash forwards, my bondage keeps me in place. He isn’t stopping, or pausing, he is making the most out of this hour.
“—No, come on, man!—” I whine, “—Anywhere but the toes—” God I sounded so desperate.
“This little piggy stayed at home …” he pinches my index toe.
I flex my feet outward, the toe ties budge only a millimetre, pulling my feet back into place.
“You’re a mean piece of work, you know that?”
He is toying with my left foot, his fingertips trailing from heel to toe, causing it to twist and stretch beneath his touch.
“Not both at the same time, man!”
“This little piggy had roast beef …” he pinches my middle toe.
I yelp and lean so far forward my head is reaching past my knees.
“Stop, man! Don’t go any further, I mean it!”
“… This little piggy had none,” he pinches my second to last toe, the giggles leaving my throat are so fast and so non stop that my lips have become wet.
“… And this little piggy went …”
He doesn’t even bother to finish the song, he leaves out the ‘wee wee wee’ and instead throws all ten fingers against the bottoms of my feet, actioning his most intense scribble yet.
Such a sudden attack causes me to no longer laugh, instead, I howl.
I can no longer beg, I just scream out my laughter and leap from my seat, always kept in place by my shackles and the stocks - my body bucks against the chair, my giggles and shouts filling the room.
“—Oh, ooo ahahahaha! Oh, ooo ahahahaha! Stop! Oh, ohhh ahahahaha! Ahahaha! Ahahaha! Please! Ahahaha! Ahahahaa! Oh please!—”
I become so very aware that this is more than ‘just tickling’, it’s more than a risk, a test, an audition …
I heave and allow my head to fall over my chest as Miller decides to massage my feet, instead of tickling them.
Huff,
Huff,
Huff,
I groan and roll my eyes, sniffing up emotion, relief arriving only for a moment before dread takes its place.
“Feet as ticklish as these require the brush …”
I shuffle forwards and watch Miller’s fingertips slide away from my feet as he goes back to his rucksack.
“The, the brush?”
Miller pulls out a hairbrush and a bottle of massage lotion.
Back then, I saw them as objects, but I have of course, like you, have now come to know them as ‘tools’.
His grin is manic, he uncaps the bottle, he squirts lotion all over the bottoms of my feet as if getting ready to strike a match, to light up something furious, bright and awe-inspiring, I squirm and try to move my feet as they are doused in the shimmering liquid.
“What is that, man! What even are you—!” Leo of 1997 had no idea how useful lotion was, but I would soon find out how slippery it made my soles, how sensitive it would make my toes, increasing their level of ticklishness by another fifty or sixty percent, “Brush your hair! Brush your hair?” Jesus, here’s me thinking Miller asked a lot of questions - damn - actually, I was the one always trying to figure shit out …
“Note to self,” Miller speaks into an imaginary tape recorder as he continues to soak my feet, the room now filling with the scent of coconut, “The most ticklish man alive does not keep his concerns to himself …” He caps the bottle and drops it back into his rucksack, “… He is vocal, he begs easily, he loves to whine …” he then holds the brush by the handle, as if its a magnificent sword with powers unknown to me then, known so well to me now, “… I’ve done this to Tom Cruise, to Will Smith, to Keanu Reeves … The list is endless …” He places the brush agains the sole of my right foot, causing me to jump, “… None of them have protested as hard as you …”
I shake my head.
“No, this is too much!” My jaw stretches open as he rubs the brush to the left, “Oh shit! There’s too many bristles!” I acknowledge, my right foot twisting so hard that it breaks free from the toe tie, “Don’t put that thing anywhere near my feet, I swear to god, I, I —” Miller goes for it, running the brush from side to side across my arch as his other hand dances over my left sole, causing me to quite literally explode; I am laughing and shouting at such a volume my voice breaks, my arms pulling at my restraints with such speed they practically blur - and all the while, as I endure a sensation unlike anything I have felt before in my life, I can feel Miller watching me, never taking his eyes off my face, the thick layer of sweat covering my upper lip, the blood pulsating through my veins, causing them to thicken and throb …
There isn’t much ‘good’ about Miller.
You don’t need me to tell you that.
What was ‘good’ was that he stayed within the hour, something I don’t think he would do today.
You, Timmy, you drew the short straw by meeting him developed, evolved, the monster that he is now.
I dealt with someone who still had so much to learn, someone who had a sense of compassion, someone who still had a soul that had yet to be tarnished by greed.
When the sixty minutes were up, when my hands fell free into my lap, when the stocks were lifted away from my ankles, when I was given a bottle of Evian and the chance to catch my breath, to smear hair away from my forehead, to glare into my knees and compartmentalise my thoughts … I actually tried to make small talk.
That’s how kind I was, back then.
“You uh, you wanna grab a beer?” I asked, breathless and sore, my legs trembling as I slid away from the chair.
Miller said nothing.
He packed up the tools, shoved the camera into his rucksack, wiped lotion from his hands over his jeans and then turned to me with a smile.
He hands me a calling card; brown in colour, smooth in texture, a house illustrated on the front in black ink with feathers floating over the roof …
And then he walked away.
