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Dr Tickle by

Dr Tickle

"Almost made it," I thought when I heard my editor's voice vibrate through the newsroom, freezing me as I attempted escape. "Livingston, in my office now," he roared in a voice that left no room for contradiction. I tossed my coat, handbag and briefcase onto my cluttered desk, braced myself for criticism and entered the eye of the hurricane. Mr. Ed Grimily was a no nonsense man with a sharp nose for which stories to work with and which ones to axe. I assumed that he had gotten wind of my investigation of his close friend, a local high profile restaurant owner, who was rumored to spend his after hours in his own restaurant drinking wine while nude with women.

Standing at his desk, he pointed to the vacant chair in front of him, saying, "Sit, Livingston." I hated that chair. Since I sat in it only when in hot water, I referred to it as the "Doomsday Seat!" Ed ruffled papers on his desk, searching for something. He asked, "You know that Williams had a heart attack, don't you?" I nodded, thinking that as the perfect arts and entertainment reporter, Williams never sat in this seat, "Yes sir, he has been out for two weeks. I heard that he is out of danger and recovering at home."

Still shuffling through papers, he said, "That's right. He is." Looking at me with sharp hazel eyes, he stated, "Pittman reported to me that you had some art classes in college. Is this true?" Nodding, I replied, "Yes sir, but that was 15 years ago." I made a mental note to put a hit out on Pittman, the smart-ass know-it-all blonde bimbo advice columnist. She had been present at a group discussion on Van Gogh that a few of us reporters were having at the coffee maker a few days ago. I made reference to a few art history classes that I took, while in college. Knowing that she might have to fill in for Williams, she whispered in the boss' ear about my knowledge of the arts. I admit that I would have done the same thing, after all this is a dog eat dog world, where Pittman is a cute poodle and I am a hungry Doberman pinscher.

Tossing a paper at me, he said, "I need you to cover this art reception tonight at the downtown gallery. It's for the artists who are featured in the winter exhibit. You will need that paper to gain entrance. Ask for Mrs. Venditti. The reception is closed to the public. Williams can't do it. I don't want Pittman to cover it, because she'll spend all her time dishing the fashion and not appraise the art. It starts at 7 pm but be there by 6. Dress semi-formal." He dismissed me, by paging the receptionist.

I didn't move. Trying to find the proper words, I said, "But sir, I have something in the works and won't be able to go to the reception." I had plans to hide in the restaurant with a camcorder to catch the owner in the act of his alleged drunken nude show. Ed gave me a look that froze my protests mid-sentence. "Livingston, I know what you're up to and I don't want you near that restaurant. Whatever Bill Watson does in his spare time is his own business. You do not work for the tabloids. Let sleeping dogs lie. You are one of my best reporters, Mae. You are to attend this reception. I expect a copy of your review on my desk Monday morning by 9 am. I want it to run in Wednesday's art and entertainment section. Get moving,"

I closed the door loudly behind me, getting the attention of the newsroom. Pittman scurried to the rest rooms, like a rodent. I would deal with her later. Gathering my coat and things, I noticed that the clock read 5:15 pm. I would have to hurry. At home, I changed into a simple black silk dress with black pigskin heels. I twisted my long golden brown hair and piled it up on the crown of my head, securing it with a few gold clips, but allowing a few curls to escape at my temples and the nape of my neck. I dabbed on some rose colored lipstick, brushed some mascara across my full eyelashes, and winked a blue eye at my reflection. Before leaving, I tossed some nondescript clothing into a duffel bag. I was determined to investigate Bill Watson. I had wind of something that the boss didn't know; that Mr. Watson's nude shows were allegedly involving minors.

At the gallery the curator, Mrs. Venditti who was all of eighty and very proper, greeted me with displeasure, "Where is the esteemed Mr. Williams?" I replied that he was at home successfully recovering from a heart attack and that I was qualified to review the exhibits. She sniffed, as she arrogantly walked away from me. To be honest, I was in foreign territory but like any good reporter, I possessed chameleon abilities. With my mini recorder in hand and camera hanging from my shoulder, I went from exhibit to exhibit, recording random impressions for later editing. I thought to myself how easy this assignment was, one more exhibit to review, take some photos, talk to the artists and then I am out of here with plenty of time to sneak into Watson's restaurant to catch his late night nude review.

I was wrong. The last exhibit blew me away. I was extremely speechless for a moment. The other exhibits, while they all showed major talent, did not compare to the radiance and brilliance of this artist, whose signature read Dr. Tickle. His unique approach to watercolors incorporated the art of haiku poetry within the paintings. From a poetry college course, I learned that Haiku is a Japanese form of poetry consisting of unrhymed phrases in five, seven and five syllables. These usually reflected a timeless moment of nature or emotion. I loved trying my hand at writing haiku, while in college, even though I was horrible at it. My favorite was:

Butter, sour cream chives
Cover steamy nakedness
Roasted skin of brown.

The first painting showed children laughing and playing at a water fountain in a city park. At the bottom of the watercolor, the haiku read:

Sweet laughing children
Cool water so free flowing
Splash delightfully.

The next painting was of a massive mountain with dark cloudy skies and lush green valleys. Above the skies the haiku stated:

Ageless sentinel
Guarding the valley of death
Proud and defiant.

The last piece of art captivated my undivided attention. Multicolored in realistic detail, the painting depicted an exotic bird feather. These words sang from the haiku:

Airy and yielding
Light touch creates giggles
Torture and pleasure.

Mesmerized, I stood looking at the painting. The feather revived a childhood memory long forgotten of a habit that I had of pulling feathers out of my goose-downed pillow. At an innocent six years of age as I lay in bed, I would blissfully twirl the feather on my face, tickling myself lightly until I fell asleep. When Mr. Sun shone down upon me the next morning, I would hide the feather under my pillow, thinking that my mother wouldn't find it. She always did find it. Scolding me lovingly, she warned me that if I removed all the feathers that I wouldn't have a pillow. But I had developed a habit and much to my dismay, when my pillow became a pancake, my mother replaced it with a foam-filled one. I had forgotten that silly habit, until I saw the painting.

"Does the feather tickle your fancy?" said a very seductive masculine voice into my ear. I spun around to direct my gaze upon a handsome dark haired man of medium stature with a very trim fit physique, dressed in a black tuxedo. I smiled, "I was reliving a forgotten childhood memory." "I am delighted that the feather peaks your interest." His voice had a schooled cultured sound much like that of a cello, rising and falling as it inflects the proper pitch and tone at the perfect moment.

He extended his hand, "I am Dr. Richard P. Tickle. So, do you like my watercolor haiku series?" I clasped his hand with my smaller one, feeling the smoothness of his warm skin, "A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Tickle!" I tried not to smile as I said his name. "My name is Mae Livingston. I am a reporter for the Times Messenger newspaper. I am reviewing the exhibit for our entertainment section, which, by the way, will run in Wednesday's paper. I find your approach refreshing and innovative. The art is very life like and the colors spring out of the paintings, while your haiku poetry adds class."

"Thank you, my dear. How kind!" he said. He paused, giving me a look of total pleasure for my words of praise. He was about to comment, when Mrs. Venditti called him away. I was left alone with the feather, admiring the intricate detail and vivid color. It breathe with such realistic life that I could imagine it lightly stroking my face. The haiku sent my mind into a spin. I couldn't imagine the feather giving torture, but sheer pleasure.

The reception started with the introduction of the artist. I chatted with each one, but Dr. Tickle's virile essence overshadowed the others. My mind replayed over and over his delicate whisper, "Does the feather tickle your fancy?" I could not take my eyes off the feather painting. Cornering the elegant Mrs. Venditti, I asked if it were for sale. Disappointment washed over me when she replied in her snobby demeanor that it wasn't.

I mingled with the gathers, mimicking small talk, but truly drawn to the feather and its accompanying haiku. I noticed Dr. Tickle was very popular with the ladies, especially Mrs. Venditti, although his eyes were on me whenever I glanced his way. I read his biography in the reception program; 40 years old, born in Boston, thrice divorced, possessing a Doctorate degree in Philosophy and a Masters degree in Chemistry, a member of several civic organizations, and the winner of numerous awards. He was a man who had already accomplished many wonderful feats and had many more triumphs waiting for him on the road ahead. He had made a favorable impression on me. I knew that I would have an arduous time of not showing favoritism in my review of the art exhibit.

I glanced at my wristwatch. Dimly, from the black void, my other project screamed for my attention. I knew that I should be making my farewells, but I could not tear myself away from Dr. Tickle's feather. I stood before it humbly trying to memorize the details, knowing that I would return to spend countless hours observing the painting, almost obsessed by it, and not knowing why.

Dr. Tickle's sweltering voice floated from behind me, again. "I have more paintings at my studio if you care to view them. It isn't far from here, just a block or so away. I grow tired of this tedious social affair and would be honored if you would grace me with your delicate presence to enjoy a glass of wine. He flashed a breath-taking smile before continuing, "And of course to converse about my art which you find so intriguing."

I felt as if his hands were molding my fate, as he propelled me from the gallery and onto the street. We paused outside the steps of the gallery for him to drape my coat over my shoulders and to relieve me of my camera case. Silently we walked with his left hand cradling my right wrist. I madly wondered if he could feel the rapidness of my pulse, as my blood pounded in unexplained excitement.

After what seemed an eon, we were finally at his studio. "Here we are, my dear," he said as he unlocked the door, holding it for me to enter first. Taking my coat, he excused himself. I was alone in the studio with its hodge podge variety of easels sporting finished and unfinished works of art. I wandered around aimlessly as my mind absorbed my surroundings.

Dr. Tickle returned with two glasses of red wine. He had changed into black jeans and a black silk shirt. I devoured him with my eyes, as his attractiveness was natural and not fake. Smiling at me, he asked, "Tell me, Mae, why are you so intrigued by the feather?" I didn't know to answer that question. I wanted to passionately shout that I found the thought of it leisurely brushing over my body to be titillating and exotic. Instead nonchalantly, I replied, "Your painting of it is exquisite." His laugh mocked me, " My dear, you may be honest. You are imagining how the feather would feel on your flushed skin, caressing and teasing, drawing you to the brink of heaven and back again." I said nothing as a blush covered my face, for he spoke the truth and I dared not deny it.

"Come, little one," he said, "My other paintings await." Taking my arm, he escorted me through a door into a much smaller room. The white walls were covered with paintings of feathers of all types and done in all forms of mediums of art. I was spellbound. My captivated eyes drank in the wonder of the intricate detail of each painting. I was in heaven.

Enthralled by one painting of a peacock feather, I stood studying its design, when I felt a ticking around the nape of my neck. Shivering, I turned abruptly to encounter Dr. Tickle, twirling a blue jay feather by the quill. "You shiver and tremble, Mae. With that caress from this feather, did I open a portal to your hidden desires?" He dallied the feather along my jaw line, lightly in a teasing caress. Paralyzed with extreme pleasure, I couldn't respond. I concentrated on the feel of the feather's softness, as his words rendered me powerless. I melted under his touch. "Don't be frightened, my gentle doe," he whispered in my ear, as he unclipped my long hair for it to fall in waves down my back.

"Tonight, Mae, I shall give you all that you yearn for. You will become my greatest masterpiece of all time, my living sensual art; the epitome of my feather haiku." The feather traced my lips, teasing them with a tingle, just before his sensual mouth tortured mine with tenderness. I rejoiced in the awakening of childhood tickling delights and yielded to the exuberance of new found erotic sensations that he coax from my yearning body. My previous urgent project became a dim memory as Dr. Tickle's feather became my sole reality of torturous pleasure.

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