What's so funny?

Went to the Leather Pride Night Wrap-Up meeting tonight. The meeting went well. It has been so great working with this group. They have it together in soooo many ways. It's pure pleasure. Part of the success of the effort seems to be that there are enough people that are willing to pitch in so that no one is taking on work to the extent that they have no time for other important life activities like eating, sleeping, and bathing. Beyond that, it's been great getting to know folks from across the spectrum of the Leather community in NYC.


Afterwards, I managed to steal some time from Diabolique for dinner. Well, we both had egg sandwiches, which is pretty paltry for dinner, but sure hit the spot for me.

With his kooky work schedule, Diabolique is much less available than he has been in the past. I see him so rarely now. Heretofore, I could count on seeing him at each and every GMSMA function I attended, and generally being available to hang afterwards. Rather than missing his company, I think this means that I'll have to schedule time.

Shared with him an idea of his that I've borrowed whole cloth. Diabolique expressed several weeks ago that it would be a rip to do a scene involving tickling. My initial reaction (unvoiced at the time) was, "That sounds like utter hell." And then I got to thinking.

I'm very ticklish. And I hate--no, I'm afraid of being tickled.

Something about the loss of control.

Two things come to mind. First off, when I was a little boy, my father would wake me and get me out of bed in the morning in a curious way. He'd be doing a riff of "C'mon, time to get up. Up and at'em. Rise and shine, the sun is high." And then he would make this noise. Like a loose fan belt. And then I'd feel his fist press down firmly on my back. He'd say, "Oh my gosh! What's that? Why... it looks like a teeny tiny space ship... It is! It's a teeny tiny space ship! And what's happening now?" (I'd feel the sensation of his hand walking on finger tips over my back.) "It's a teeny tiiny alien! He's walking all over my son's back! And it looks like he's preparing to... Oh, it's too terrible! But yes, he's going to administer... Tickle Tortures!!!" And he'd tickle me. I'd scream. I'd beg him to stop. I'd get up. Angry.

Ananutherthing. All through Elementary school, first grade through sixth grade, I had this problem. Someone would make me laugh, and I'd lose control of my bladder and wet my pants. It was such a problem that the school nurse would keep in her office a pair of pants in my size. Come to think of it, it happened once when I was in the 9th grade at a party. I locked myself in the bathroom claiming I had the runs from some dried apricots I had eaten while I did my best to airdry my pants and blot them with toilet paper. It was Dear Abby to the rescue, who explained in one of her columns how to do those exercises. The problem has abated. Perhaps because the exercises worked. Perhaps because things aren't quite as funny as they once were.

But still, it's about losing control.

Diabolique once said to me that when you fear something, that means there's a lesson there you need to learn. So I've got to go back to school. To elementary school, in particular. (Fun fact: I attended Gayman Elementary School in Plumsteadville, Pennsylvania.)

So I sent email to Does Mean Well proposing a tickling scene this year at Inferno. When I checked email just now, I had a response.

He's in.

We're on.

You'll read about it here.

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