Tit Ticklers

Nothing wakes me up faster than a tick on the tit. And so it was in the o'dark hours this morning that I was shot from a surreal dream to a too real wake-state by the sensation of something small crawling across my left nipple. TICK, my mind screamed. And before the thinking parts of my brain could begin the complex process of analysis, the more practical, but less complex group of cells in my brainstem that oversees things like breathing and ball scratching shot my right hand to my chest and plucked the crawly off as I vaulted out of bed and hit the light switch.

It was about this time my conscious bits were starting to put two and two together and my pupils were beginning to relax from their pin-hole contraction when I realized I was standing beside my bed, in my birthday suit, holding what felt like "nothing" between pinched thumb and forefinger, and wondering what had happened. Then the intercranial intercom began to crackle. "You were dreaming when a creapy, crawly, blood-sucking, many-legged scourge came house calling. You have it in your fingers. Look, stupid."

So I did - nothing. Nothing there. Was I imagining it? "Look more, Stupid." Ah, there it is. The little sleep-robbing fucker evaded my initial attempt at capture and was making a bee-line for safety across the now rumpled bed sheets. Die, fucker, die. I nailed his little ass and carried him into the bathroom where I tossed him into the cyclonic execution chamber and then pissed on him before pulling the trigger and sending him to certain death in the septic tank version of the River Styx.

So, there I was, still naked, now fully awake with twenty minutes left before my alarm was due to go off. No point in laying back down now that the primitive, leopard skin wearing caveman me had been invoked. No, better to just go off to make the coffee a little early and walk the dog. Damn ticks.