By Hunter Perez

It was a little after one in the morning and I was stretched out on my living room couch watching a cable television channel’s marathon of “The Monkees” episodes. My insomnia had gotten out of control and this was the easiest way to stay comfortable while sleep remained elusive. To my surprise, my phone rang – it was Jock calling.

“Bingo, what are you doing up at this ungodly hour?” Jock asked.

“How did you know I was awake?” I asked. “And why are you calling me? I thought you were in Hawaii doing a photo shoot with some surfer boys.”

“I left Hawaii a day early and my flight got in about 30 minutes ago,” he answered. “I’m at the gas station across the street from your apartment building and I can see your living room light is on. I think you’re the only one in the building who is awake at this hour.”

I looked out the window and spotted Jock standing by his Mercedes at the gas station. I waved to him and he waved back.

“Is that cute ginger with the dark-rimmed glasses on duty at the station?” I asked.

“Yeah, I just bought a lottery ticket from him,” he responded. “If you want company, I can come up.”

Within five minutes, Jock and I were sitting on the couch watching “The Monkees” while enjoying the contents of a box of chocolate covered macadamia nuts that he brought from Hawaii. After we watched back-to-back episodes and sang along to “Last Train to Clarksville” and “Daydream Believer,” I turned off the television.

“Jock, you’ve got to help me,” I confided. “I’ve tried everything to deal with my insomnia, but nothing works. I tried hot milk before bedtime, beer before bedtime, all sorts of supplements, exercises, hot and cold showers – and here I am in the middle of the night watching reruns.”

“Have you considered going across the street to chat up that cute guy in the gas station?” he asked with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t it be great if he thought you were cute? I bet he does.”

I looked at Jock with discomfort and he quickly dropped his facetious tone in favor of a more serious nature.

“I had some medic training while I was in the Army,” he continued. “I can easily cure your insomnia. Get into bed and we’ll get started.”

We went into my bedroom and Jock instructed me to remove my t-shirt. I complied and climbed into bed.

“Okay, now where do you keep your handcuffs?” he asked while pulling open and searching into my dresser drawers.

“Wait, wait, hold it,” I said, jumping out of bed. “What do handcuffs have to do with curing my insomnia?”

Jock pushed his hand into my chest, which forced me back on my bed. He then opened a bottom drawer on my dresser and extracted a box containing handcuffs. Shaking the box open, he extracted the handcuffs while placing the keys on the night table besides the bed.

“Bingo, trust me on this,” he said in an assuring voice. “What I learned in my medic training was that the main cause for insomnia is stress. You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and that’s probably preventing you from sleeping. Give me about 10 to 15 minutes and I will get the stress out of you – and you’ll be sleeping like a little baby.”

“But, Jock, why do you need handcuffs?” I protested. “Won’t that create more stress?”

“What’s creating more stress is your questioning my knowledge,” he laughed. “Now, lay back and put your wrists on the lower bar of the headboard.”

Against my better instincts, I followed Jock’s instructions. Within a few seconds, my wrists were locked in the handcuffs. Jock sat on the edge of my mattress, tousling my hair.

“Okay, Bingo, now it’s time to drain the stress from you,” he said. “Count out loud to three and we’ll begin.”

I inhaled with deep apprehension and exhaled into a very slow count to three. Upon reaching the numerical goal, Jock began to run his fingers maniacally into my armpits while yelling “Kitchy! Kitchy! Kitchy!”

“What they hell are you doing?” I screamed while my body abruptly rocked amid his tickle torture.

“Laughter is the best medicine,” Jock said, pausing briefly from his assault on my armpits. “You were on the right track by watching ‘The Monkees’ – stuff like that can make you laugh, but that’s like taking a baby aspirin. I’m giving you a double-dose of morphine with this technique. Now, where was I? Oh yeah – Kitchy! Kitchy! Kitchy!”

Jock’s fingers ran amok across my upper torso, reducing my body into kinetic gyrations while my laughing shrieks reached decibel levels that I never knew I could achieve. The more I twisted and turned, the faster his fingers raced over my bare and susceptible flesh. The loud metallic clicks of the handcuffs against the brass headboard as my wrists flailed wildly added to the cacophony. After five minutes of “Kitchy! Kitchy! Kitchy!” and my gales of too-loud laughing, another noise emerged – the ringing of my apartment’s doorbell.

“Oh, shit, I hope we didn’t wake up that scary guy who lives next door,” I gasped.

Jock stopped tickling me and stood up. “How scary is he?”

“Oh, he’s about your height and size, but he looks like a serial killer,” I whimpered. “He has a shaved head and bushy beard, and he has heavy metal tattoos all over his arms. His biceps are the size of my head. He always scowls at me whenever we pass each other in the hall – I always feel he is going pummel me.”

“I’ll take care of this,” announced Jock as he exited the bedroom while the doorbell pealed again. I could hear Jock open the door, but then I heard him laugh out loud followed by talk that I couldn’t decipher. Jock raced back to the bedroom and said, “Bingo, you didn’t tell me that Carl was your neighbor.”

“Who’s Carl?” I asked, unable to recall any previous mention of that name.

“He’s my personal trainer at the gym,” he responded while turning back to the front door. “Carl, come in – did you know you live next door to Bingo?”

I looked up at my handcuffed wrists and tried not appear embarrassed. Carl lumbered in, but the scowl that always greeted me with was replaced by a huge grin.

“That’s the famous Bingo you always talk about?” said Carl in squeaky little voice that didn’t fit his behemothic physique. “I would never have guessed. What a small world. And why is the little guy cuffed up?”

Jock quickly explained what we were doing and then, to my horror, he asked Carl if he wanted to assist him in the tickling cure for my insomnia. Carl beamed with the glow that you associate with little kids discovering their Christmas gifts and said, “Let me get my boyfriend Pedro – the more, the merrier.”

Carl raced out of the bedroom and Jock came out and crouched next to my face. “Isn’t this great, Bingo? With four extra hands, we can get your insomnia cured much faster.”

I stared at Jock with incredulity. “What is this, a convention? I don’t want multiple guys tickling me – bad enough you’re doing this.”

“I can get that cute ginger attendant from the gas station to come up and help,” Jock suggested. “Hey, that’s not a bad idea. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t mind having him tickle me.”

“Oh, just let me go back to watching ‘The Monkees,’ Jock,” I said.

Carl returned with Pedro, who matched him for height and musculature – although Pedro’s bronzed skin, long black hair and Aztec good looks were far less threatening to behold. But Pedro seemed more easily amused than his partner – he pointed at my handcuffed body on the bed and began to giggle while saying something in Spanish that I couldn’t understand but imagined was impolite.

I turned to Jock and whispered, “Not only are you failing to cure my insomnia, but you’re exacerbating my inferiority complex.”

Jock waved Carl and Pedro to the bed and pointed at my feet. “Okay, now each of you take a foot. When I count to three, start tickling.”

I started to sit up and speak, but Jock planted his palm over my mouth and added to the visitors, “Okay, guys – one, two, three!”

Carl and Pedro dropped their knees on my ankles and began tickling my feet crazily. Jock took his hand from my mouth and resumed running his fingers under my armpits. Within a split second, I was reduced to a state of inescapable convulsive laughter as my body pushed in vain from the tickle torture that overcame me.

“Hey, look at his crotch,” Carl yelled out. “That’s quite a tentpole he’s got in there.”

Indeed, my cock had immediately straightened and hardened in my underwear as my body was assaulted with the maniacal strokes of the three men’s fingers. Jock instructed Carl to take over the attack under my armpits while he pulled down my underwear and opened my cock to full view.

“And now, we drain the stress,” Jock declared, spitting into his hands before furiously massaging my manhood. Another minute of deranged tickling that unleashed laughs of a lung-bursting nature followed before my groin began to rock violently.

“Jock, I’m going to explode,” I yelled.

Jock gave me one extra hard squeeze and I ejaculated with geyser fury. Pedro stopped tickling my feet and pointed up – I shot part of my load straight through the air and into the ceiling.

“I never saw anything like that,” said Carl, who also stopped tickling me. “I hope he didn’t wake the guy in the upstairs apartment.”

Jock fished through my dresser and found a towel, which he used to carefully wipe my groin. “How do you feel, Bingo?” he asked.

“I feel like I’m going to collapse,” I cried. “I’m so tired, so very tired.”

“Perfect!” Jock cheered, grabbing the handcuff keys from the night table. I was unlocked and Jock carefully placed my arms by my side. Jock then slowly drew the blanket over me, tucking it under my chin while kissing my forehead.

“Go to sleep, Bingo,” he whispered. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

I turned my head and saw “2:30” on the night table’s clock. Jock shooed Carl and Pedro from the room and turned off the overhead light. I shut my eyes and coughed slightly before sliding into slumber.

When I opened my eyes, I checked the clock and saw “2:45.” I sat up, shook my head and cursed out loud. “What the fuck? I only slept for 15 minutes?”

“Is that you, pal?” called out Jock from the living room. He entered my bedroom carrying a Styrofoam coffee up and smiled when he saw me.

“It’s 2:45,” I complained. “I went through all of that nonsense just to get 15 minutes sleep?”

Jock put his cup on the dresser and pulled open the room’s curtains, revealing a bright sunny world beyond my window. “It’s 2:45 in the afternoon, Bingo. You slept nonstop for more than 12 hours. You didn’t even snore.”

I looked out the window, then at Jock, then fell back on the bed. “I don’t believe it. I didn’t even have any dreams. This is the first time in ages that I slept – and slept and slept. You crazy guy, it really worked.”

“I hate to say I told you so – but I told you so,” laughed Jock. “I stayed over, just to make sure it worked. They’re still showing ‘The Monkees’ marathon on TV, if you can believe that.”

Jock picked up his cup and I asked where he got that. “Oh, I went across the street to the gas station to get a cup of coffee and some doughnuts. I brought you back some potato chips and six-pack of soda. I also brought back Simon.”

“Simon?” I said, not certain what he meant.

Jock turned and called out, “Hey, Simon. Come on in.”

To my astonishment, the cute ginger with the dark-rimmed glasses who worked as an attendant at the gas station meandered into my room. He paused about three feet from the bed, smiled slightly, nodded and waved gently. He was tall, pale, thin and was dressed in the black pants and logoed shirt of his workplace’s brand. I thought he was about my age, perhaps a little younger. He was nervous, but he was damn gorgeous.

“And you know what else I am right about?” Jock continued. “Simon thinks you’re cute. We’ve been talking about you while you were sleeping. Isn’t that right, Simon?”

Simon blushed and averted his eyes from us, nodding while his smile widened a bit.

“And you know what else is funny?” Jock added. “I told Simon about how I got rid of your insomnia. He said that you must have looked hot in handcuffs. Isn’t that right, Simon?”

Jock’s question produced the first sound out of Simon, a small and gentle laugh. Simon nodded again, but this time he looked at me with an even wider smile.

“I’ll show you what he looks like when he’s cuffed,” said Jock as he quickly grabbed the handcuffs from the night table and slapped one manacle across my right wrist. Before I could object, Jock pulled my wrists to the lower bar of the headboard and trapped my free wrist, returning me to my captivity. I was too shocked to say anything, but then was even more shocked when Jock walked over to Simon and presented the handcuff keys to him.

“He’s all yours, Simon,” Jock said, picking up his coffee cup and walking out of the room. “I’ll be in the living room watching ‘The Monkees’ if you need me. But I’m sure you don’t need me.”

Simon moved slowly and came to the right side of the bed. He gazed at me with what seemed to be a mix of curiosity and delight. He sat on the side of the bed and carefully ran the keys up and down the center of my bare chest.

“Hi,” I said, perhaps a bit sheepishly.

“Hi,” he responded in a soft and soothing voice. His smile and body language were relaxed.

“You have to excuse my pal,” I said. “He can be a bit too much.”

“I like him,” Simon replied, tapping his fingers on the top of my chest. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling back to him. “Are you?”

“Very much,” he said. “Do you want me to unlock you?”

Oh, hell, he was beautiful – and he was on my bed, staring at me in the most wonderful way. I could feel a new tentpole starting to take form in my groin. “That’s up to you, Simon.”

Simon held the keys up in front of his eyes, shook them, then placed them in his pants pocket.  From the corner of my eye, I could see Jock standing in the bedroom doorway while sipping his coffee.

“I thought you were going to watch ‘The Monkees,’ Jock,” I called out. “We’re not the Monkees!”

Jock raised his cup as if making a toast and then used his other hand to slowly close the bedroom door. As he exited, he started to sing, “Cheer up, Sleepy Jean! Oh, what can it mean? To a daydream believer and a homecoming queen…”

The End