FOMO

By Chance

Recently I’ve been on somewhat of a downward spiral. It started because I hated my job (how original), and continued because I found people who hated their job as much as I did. They were also as self-destructive as I was.

My downward spiral took the form of drink and drugs. Wine and cocaine, like a shit yuppie. All of my weekends were the same. On Friday night I would leave work at 4pm and go to the pub with my fellow depressives. At around 8pm we would be drunk and call a cab to go back to someone’s flat. Once there we would call a dealer, pool our money and carry on drinking until the coke arrived. Then we’d drink and do coke until 5am, Then it was time to stagger back to our own homes. Wake up at 12pm and repeat to more extreme degrees (because you feel like shit and the only way to heal is to go bigger) and we’re into Sunday morning. Sunday was our day of rest. A day to hide from the sunlight, eat cereal straight from the packet and hate yourself. I was living alone at this point and, eventually, going home to an empty house after two days of binging seemed pathetic to me. That’s when I started to add casual sex into the equation. Luckily the skinny drug addict look has yet to go out of fashion in London. The ladies and gentlemen love a fuck-up. I could offer them everything they could possibly want – an unenthusiastic lay and a handful of dry cornflakes for their troubles.

Every weekend was the same, from September through to early December. God it was dull, and expensive. £200 a night on cocaine, and then however much on alcohol that had no effect, aside from compounding your misery the following day. I wanted to stop but it seemed as if there was nothing better for me to do. I was always in control though. I was never the one who got so drunk that even a line couldn’t help them. I remained above it all. High but not buzzing. Drunk but not slurring. I was champion at being a disgusting human being. Until one night I wasn’t. I was out in east London, took a pill on a whim (as you do) and then lost all memory of the night for the next eight hours. I have vague recollections of being places and doing stuff. It felt like I was coming up for air – oh, I’m here now am I? – and then plunging back down like a rank, pointless fish.

I woke up at about 10am. In a bed, which I was pleasantly surprised about. The downside was that I didn’t know where I was and I was only wearing boxers and a t-shirt. That was a bit concerning but at least I wasn’t naked and chained up in a dungeon. The glass is always half full. The room was empty. I was impressed to see that whoever’s room it was actually had curtains. I was clearly dealing with an adult. Also definitely a man, if the neatly folded pile of clothes on the chair was anything to go by. God, I felt like hell. I never do pills. That was stupid and now I’m without most of my clothes in a stranger’s room.

The door opened and my captor walked in. Tall, well-built with light brown hair and several day’s worth of stubble. Looked to be in his mid-30s, strong jaw and nice eyes. Jeans, dark green t-shirt, bare feet. Attractive, (aside from the slightly mocking smirk on his face), which made me hope even more that this was a sexual assault situation rather than a murder. I could feel the insanity of my hair, and on a scale of one to ten I was pretty sweaty. If this was a beauty competition then I think he’d win.

“How do you feel?” was the first thing he asked me. Vulnerable? Stupid? Disgusting? Embarrassed?
“I’m ok thanks” was my answer. Admit nothing, deny everything.
“You look like shit”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“Your jeans are in the wash. They were also disgusting.”
“Err… thanks again?”
“My name is James by the way, since I assume you don’t remember.”
“A correct assumption.” I wanted the ground to swallow me up at this point. This exchange is one of those stories that will come unbidden into my head just before I fall asleep, making me groan with the sheer excruciating humiliation of it all.
“Your name is Chance, you are 28-years old, you work in advertising and you’re bored of being a drug addict.”
“True on every count. Looks like I told you my whole life story. I’m selling the rights to Disney though, so no repurposing it.”
“Do you always hide behind humour?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“Why?”
“I’m very grateful for you taking me home last night and letting me stay but this is not what I need right now. I should go….I have no idea where I am.”
“Your jeans are in the wash. It’s December so I don’t think you’ll be appropriately dressed without them.” Fuckshitfucks. “We’re about 10 minutes walk from your house by the way. You told me where you lived and where you work. If you’d told me your mum’s phone number I could have called her up and tell her what a disappointment you are.”
“I’m going to ignore that last bit. What else did I tell you?”
“You said that you’ve been sleeping with a regularly changing cast of girls and boys and that you have a bit of a bondage and a lot of a tickling fetish.”
“The fuck I did. I have told about four people that in my entire life.”
“Which part? The fetishes? In pills there is truth. Don’t be embarrassed. People with kinks are much more fun than people without.”
“What’s yours?”
“I told you last night.”
“That hardly counts for anything now. I think it’s only fair that you level the playing field and tell me yours.”
During this exchange, James had been walking slowly towards me. The slightly mocking smirk was still there, but now there was another look alongside it. I did not like that look. I needed to do something to defuse the situation.
“I feel like I should say that my fetish is very much tickling rather than being tickled. I feel like that’s important here.”
“That’s no fun for me though. You had your fun last night and now it’s my turn.”
“But I don’t remember anything about last night. That’s not fair!” I definitely felt every bit as pathetic as I sounded.
“If you let me tie you to the bed and tickle you then I’ll tell you what happened last night. That’s both of your fetishes combined, or it would be if you weren’t so selfish.”
“I’m not ticklish though.”
“Yes you are. You could hardly stand me undoing your belt last night.”
“That doesn’t sound true.” It did sound true. “Can’t we do something else?”
“Of course, I’m not going to do this against your will. You’re missing out though. Nice things happen to the men I tie to this bed.”
“I’m gutted, I thought I’d be your first. Why the tickling then?”
“It intrigued me. I wanted to give it a try. Who better to test it out on than the person who introduced me to the idea?”
“Literally anyone else in the world, ever?”
“Don’t be so boring. Have you ever been in bondage?”
“No. I don’t want to be.”
“Why, are you a control freak?”
“Yes, probably. I don’t know. I… I’ve never thought about it.”
“Well think about it now. Let me tie you to this bed and we can have fun.”
“What did we do last night?”
“I’ll only tell you if you let me tie you to this bed.” This argument was wearing me out. I felt like shit, I couldn’t leave and a part of me was wondering what it would be like.
“How long for?”
“You’re caving. Cracks are appearing.”
“I’m asking a question is all.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“I don’t think I’d survive that.”
“Why? You’re not ticklish.”
“Yeah… I am.”
“I know. Let me tie you to my bed.”
“Fuck’s sake. If I agree then there will be rules. I get to wear all the clothes that I have on now.”
“Deal, I can get underneath them all anyway.”
“You can’t touch me under them.”
“Here’s a concession I’ll make – if I can’t see the skin then I won’t tickle it.” I wish Last Night’s Me had the foresight to keep his socks on.
“Ok. Twenty minutes. The clothes stay on and if I start to die then you have to stop”. Why was I agreeing to this? I’m too old for that Fear Of Missing Out shite.

James opened his wardrobe, crouched down and pulled out four neat coils of thick but soft rope.
“I take it bondage is your thing too then?” I asked.
“Hands and feet to the four corners” and a smile was his reply as he pulled the duvet from the bed and threw it to the floor. I obeyed, feeling my heart rate speed up and my breath quicken. The man had definitely done this before and in what felt like a disturbingly short amount of time I was immobilised. I surreptitiously pulled at each set of knots, finally understanding how every victim in every bondage/tickling video I’ve seen must have felt. I felt pretty sick, but that might have been the comedown.
“Ok, I have 20 minutes to get the most out of you. Where shall I begin? Where are you ticklish?”
“I’m not going to say.”
“Feet? Ribs? Armpits? I’m bad under my arms so let’s start there.” I filed that bit of information away for later and began to metaphorically shit myself.
“Don’t look so nervous! The only reason to be nervous is if you’re really ticklish under your arms. If you’d told me that when I asked then I’d probably be much more gentle. I wouldn’t do what I’m about to do now.” He straddled me, kneeling above my prone body and started to drag his fingertips down from my wrist to my elbow, making erratic circles. Instantly my skin broke out into goosebumps. Looking me straight in the eye and grinning, James extended the circles onto my bicep, moving ever closer to my armpit. I was grateful for the fact that my position had pulled the t-shirt sleeves tight over my upper arms. There’d be no skin contact, but I knew it was going to be bad. It was bad. As soon as he started gently scratching his short, blunt nails under my left arm, I was heading straight towards the status of Total Mess.

“This tickles then? Does this tickle? Looks like it’s tickling. You seem to be pretty ticklish.” His teasing was making it so much worse. Every time he mentioned tickling I had to bite my lip a little harder and shut my eyes a little tighter to keep myself from making any noise. I’d started to involuntarily move my hips in circles and then up and down. Doing anything to distract myself from what was happening to my armpit. Armpits now, as he his other hand joined in. Scribbling over my thin t-shirt, which was doing a piss-poor job of protecting me. I could barely move up or down the bed, even though my brain was screaming at me to pull my arms down. I wasn’t laughing yet though. At least I still had that going for me.

James moved his hands further down my torso and gently kneaded my ribs with his knuckles. He was good at this. I told him as much.
“Ha, thanks. I had an older brother who was pretty ticklish so I’ve had a lot of practice. He was worse on his ribs than you are, but I think you win overall. Or lose.” I was too busy squirming to answer, but the ribs were so much better than my armpits had been. Who the fuck is even that ticklish on their ribs? Those people su-GAH! Nonono, this is cheating. This is against the rules!
“This is- nostop – against the rules!” I squeaked. James had moved down to my sides, goosing the flesh between my hipbone and bottom rib. “You can’t tickle me under my clothes!”
“I’m not. You’ve worked your t-shirt practically up to your nipples, you idiot.” Shit, that was probably true. It was also terrible news. I was done for. When I felt his nails scritching the skin just above my underwear (no doubt the same area he’d explored whilst removing my jeans) I gave up and started laughing. He was looking me right in the eyes and smirking that stupid smirk. Thankfully I had my eyes shut most of the time but whenever I frantically opened them, there he was. Prick.

I have a stupidly ticklish stomach, always have done, and he was taking full advantage of that. He quickly discovered that squeezing my hips or gently scratching at my lower belly were the worst places. When he lowered his face to my stomach and dragged his almost-beard across my skin, my laugh went up several octaves. After what felt like the full twenty minutes dedicated solely to my stomach, he took his hands (and face) off me and stopped the tickling.

“That’s been ten minutes.”
“No. That cannot be right. When did we start?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Bullshit.”
“You didn’t ask me what time we started at. I thought that was pretty dumb but decided not to take advantage. Not when you’re so vulnerable.”
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so vulnerable as I did then. Tied to a stranger’s bed, t-shirt halfway up my torso and a man who looked like he was having far too much fun staring down at me.
“I’m starting to understand this fetish now. It’s about control, Making someone else’s body behave in a way that they can’t control. Quite a neat little power trip really. I bet you’d do anything to be less ticklish right now. Are your feet worse than your stomach?” I decided not to do the clichéd thing, and struggle against my bonds in a futile manner. I also didn’t answer him because I didn’t trust myself not to cry. On the positive side, all this sweating and squirming had almost made me forget how sordid I felt.

James turned around and sat on my upper thighs, facing my feet. His bare feet were facing me, wrinkled soles upwards. I bet myself that he had ticklish feet. If my hands were free I could do so much.
“This is going to be terrible for you” the owner of the feet said, as he scratched his nails right at the center of both my feet at once. He was absolutely correct.
“NODONOTDOTHAT! FUCKPLEASEDON’T” was all I managed to get out before his tickling and my laughter overwhelmed me. He was good at this too, moving each hand in independent random patterns. One hand was scribbling beneath my toes whilst the other was pinching the heel of my other foot. It was all horrible, but the toes were the worst. He quickly realised this, and dedicated both hands to that torture, switching to holding my toes back and going to town on them.

“You have soft feet. You need to go outside more, rough them up a bit. Then this wouldn’t be nearly as excruciating as it seems to be. You have really ticklish feet.”
I was almost grateful for when he bent over, licking between my toes, because it meant he couldn’t speak to me. The only thing keeping me from being grateful was the fact that it tickled worse than anything in my life ever had. That must have been why James did it for so long, alternating between each foot. The feeling of his warm tongue and his scratchy stubble was sending me mad. I could feel myself running out of breath, and was almost starting to panic when… he stopped.

“The end of the 20 minutes neatly coincided with you starting to die.” He mused, before giving my kneecaps a quick squeeze and getting off the bed. “Damnit, I forgot the knees. They seem to be a good spot too. Not so much for you though.”
“That… that was the worst” I mumbled.
“Now now, don’t be like that. It was fun for me and you were having a right laugh. I think this may be the start of something new and beautiful in my life.”
“I’m pleased to be of service. What did we do last night?”
“Nothing. I met you in the club and you seemed fairly normal. We spoke for an hour or so until I said I was leaving. You said you wanted to go with me, we left and it quickly became apparent that you were absolutely fucked, We got back, you blurted out a load of boring crap about your life and then you passed out downstairs. I managed to drag you to bed, take off your jeans – which had you giggling like a fool – and then I slept downstairs”.
“This is such an anticlimax.”
“It doesn’t have to be though. Remember what I said about nice things happening to men who let me tie them to my bed? I’ll keep the tickling to a minimum,”
He lied. The tickling was not kept to a minimum. The rest of it was the truth though, especially the part about him being bad under his arms.