In high school my dream was to go out on a date with a girl in a white pleated skirt. It did not matter to me if it tickled her or not, I just wanted to be with a girl who was wearing one. At that time I considered my fantasies to be acutely embarrassing. I was terrified that I was gay or some kind of sex maniac. (My apologies to the gay community, but in the 60's, in my circle of friends, being gay was like having leprosy.) The idea of expressing any interest in tying up a girl and tickling her was unthinkable. The most I would allow myself to consider was to make out with a girl wearing a white pleated skirt and in the process of hugging and kissing I could run my hands over it. If that made her giggle, well, follow the path.
The important thing was that I elevated a girl who wore a white pleated skirt to the status of a goddess. I knew guys who did the same thing based on the kind of car her father drove, or her family's social status. I think it is fair to say that we were all at risk of hearing her exclaim, "You don't love me! You just want me because of my ____!" The difference between my misdirected attraction and theirs is that mine gives me an erection. I don't think very many guys would have sex with a girl while thinking about her father's car, but I could be wrong.
It was when I started dating in high school that I formulated a strategy for maximizing the probability of playing with a girl wearing clothes that might feel ticklish: Date girls who I have observed wearing clothes that turn me on.
It sounds simple. At first I thought it was. In fact, I still do not fully understand why this strategy failed so miserably. White pleated skirts were not as common as cotton or polyester dresses, but they were around. Time after time I would spot a girl in one and check her out, only to discover that she was going seriously steady with some guy I knew. Horning in on another guy's girl was, in my day, about the same as adultery.
Can you imagine the frustration I felt when the date I took to the movies wore a corduroy skirt, and while standing in line at the snack bar I saw two or three incredibly cute girls in white pleated skirts, hanging all over their boyfriends and giggling hysterically? The tragic part of those occurrences was that it made my date even less desirable.
I can only recall finding one good prospect, a girl with a terrific skirt, no boyfriend, and who seemed interested in me.. Hers was not just a white pleated skirt, but a two-piece sailor suit kind of thing, made of something slick and shiny, heavy yet limp, all white trimmed with dark blue around the sailor collar. The first time I saw her in it I was overwhelmed with desire not only because of the skirt, but from thoughts of tickling her breasts through the matching fabric.
I remember having her as my lab partner in chemistry class that day. I stunned myself when, as we set up the experiment, I made a comment like "Nice outfit." I had not planned it, because if I had I would have been too shy to say it. She looked slightly amused and replied, "My mom bought it for me on a trip to Paris. When I saw it I thought it looked corny, but I like wearing it because the fabric is so soft and feels so nice against my skin." I was about to light the Bunsen burner, and my hand started shaking so badly I could hardly do it. I seem to recall that she did most of the pouring and measuring while I called off the steps, watching her with rapt attention and an erection that threatened to split my pants open. I still recall quite vividly her quick smile, her flashing eyes, how the entire time she acted so amused as if aware of some secret, the way her long, straight brown hair poured down her back. She often dipped slightly, keeping her back straight while flexing her knees, as she picked things up and mixed them together. Ah, yes -- mixing! She had to stir some gloppy mixture in a straight-sided beaker with a glass rod, and the rapid, energetic strokes made her hips shimmy. It was just a tiny wiggle, hardly enough to notice in another situation, but it made the pleats of her skirt dance around her thighs. Every time she did that dip thing her skirt swelled out, then drew in around her like a jellyfish swimming along the reef. It was all very subtle, nothing that the average person would notice, but I am not at all average. It was for me a symphony of erotic symbolism, rich the promise that she was being tickled by her outfit, far more arousing than if she had been nude.
I truly thought I had met the girl of my dreams. She became the centerpiece of my fantasies, her imaginary form strung up in her sailor suit and laughing herself to orgasm after orgasm as I tickled her nipples and cunt through the silky fabric. My orgasms were the best I had had in ages.
It took a little time to get up enough nerve to call her, one of the undesirable side effects of pursuing someone so perfect. I finally did, and she graciously turned me down because of a previous commitment to baby-sit. She sounded so warm and friendly, so willing and interested, that I was certain that she would accept the next time. Wrong. Over and over again I called, and her reply was always the same. So encouraging in tone, but always a rejection. Never a date with another guy, always baby-sitting. It took a long time for me to get it through my head that this was her way of saying she was not interested.
Sandy Beach