Playing Possum For Pleasure
by Casper D

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Once, while playing football with my former foster brothers and a few of the neighborhood boys, I got tackled by three hugely husky lads.

I wasn't hurt more than usual by this, but I could hear Mrs. Enid Dickerson (my former foster Mom) yelling fearfully--probably fearing that the slender-looking sandy-blond prettyboy [Me] had been crushed by those aforementioned husky brutes. So I took advantage of the situation, and pretended that the three young offensive linemen had knocked me cold!

I played the role for all that it was worth, keeping my eyes closed and remaining perfectly limp as Mr. Dickerson checked me for injuries and then actually carried me in his strong arms off the lawn … just as if I was still the adolescent waif he and his wife had taken in some years before! He carried me into the house and sat down on the sofa with me still on his lap. Mrs. Enid Dickerson hovered above us and, after making certain that I wasn't dead or too severely injured, ordered her husband to put me to bed. My foster father complied without complaint. He was deeply concerned himself. I still feel guilty about worrying him so much that day.

He laid me on the bed and undressed me. I was "conscious" now, but was still pretending to be a bit groggy. He pulled off my worn sneakers, and wrinkled his nose a little as he slid off my smelly, sweat-soaked socks. As unreasonable as it sounds, I was hurt by the fact that the smell of my feet repulsed him. I wanted him to love the smell of my feet. I wanted him to bring my sweaty socks to his nose and take deep whiffs. I wanted him to lift my bare toes to his nose and sniff for all that he was worth before sucking on them. But he didn't.

"What's the matter son?" he asked, seeing the depressed look on my face.

"Nothing, Mr. Dickerson." I lied. "I was just feelin' bad about losin' the game."

"Oh, cheer up, boy--the other team won by default." He said with a bright smile, as he continued pulling off my sock. I giggled as the sock slid past my sensitive heel. "Good, you're smiling again."

I became sort of bold and told Mr. Dickerson that I wasn't smiling because I was "cheered-up", but rather because of the way he'd slid the sock off my very ticklish foot.

"You're ticklish?" he asked.

I nodded, looking forlorn and depressed again. "My feet especially."

"Well, if this is the only way to get you to laugh ..."

Then, without warning, my foster dad slid his index finger from the heel of my right foot all the way up to the area below my little toe. I jerked and laughed. He then scraped his finger across the area below my toes, down the arch, and then brushed it back and forth. I began to scream out loud, it tickled so much!

"Oh, you can try that if you want to, but it ain't gon' help ... " he said, noticing that I was now curling my toes in a desperate attempt to protect them from his tickling fingers. He raked his fingernail from the heels of my bare feet, across my arches and towards my toes--causing me to flex my arches and wriggle my toes in a frenzied attempt to escape his fingers. I had found the secret! All I had to do from then on was pretend to be deeply depressed. Whenever Mr. Dickerson saw a hangdog look on my face, he'd grab my foot, relieve me of my shoes and socks, and begin tickling my feet like crazy.

As you can imagine, I was depressed a lot during the time I spent visiting the Dickersons!