Let me say this from the outset: coming from a large, extended family with dozens of relatives, my childhood was an epic of non-stop tickling. Most of our people emigrated from Eastern Europe, eventually settling into the same neighborhood, which meant there were always plenty of kids around on weekends and holidays.

Our folks took turns taking care of us after school, sometimes sending an older cousin over to keep an eye on us. This was a favored tradition from the old country, where everybody in seemed to be related by blood or marriage. The majority of our babysitters were relatives, but our all-time favorite minder at the time was our "long lost" cousin Karla.

Karla Jeygensen was three years my senior, making her around fifteen when she started babysitting my sisters and I. We quickly discovered she was a world-class tickler, and while we all fell victim to her torturous fingertips at one time or another, I soon became her prime target – mainly because I did everything in my power to provoke her most of the time.

I guess I need to explain a little about myself. I was born with a rare glandular condition known as TISM - Toxically Induced Sexual Morphism. While genetically male, I appear anatomically female in virtually every respect; only the specialists can tell the difference, and then only after extensive examinations and testing. The medical literature connects it to an industrial accident back in the sixties, which released several thousand tons of insecticide into the local environment - much of which consisted of conjugated estrogens. The result was an ecological disaster and several generations of transsexual children - tranzies in the regional parlance - of which I happen to be a prime example.

The condition effects something like one in seven males in the Courtland district, meaning that I really wasn't seen as anything out of the ordinary at the time (religious fanatics and right-wing nutjobs notwithstanding). Tranzies had become a fixture in my hometown decades before, and my parents were willing to raise me as a girl during early childhood. So did everyone else, which is where cousin Karla comes in.

As the proverbial black swan of our family - an archetype gothic art student with a 'take no prisoners' attitude - Karla had my number from day one, and never failed to remind me who was in charge. It made absolutely no difference what my preferred pronoun was: she utterly refused to put up with even the slightest hint of rebellion on my part. If I started something, I could be darned sure she'd finish it.

And believe it or not, that suited me just fine.

Being the middle child in the family, I was slightly starved for attention, and usually acted out in chronic misbehavior. I was also a budding tomboy (a lethal combination back in those days), so I was always getting into some kind of trouble. Karla was somewhat on the rough-and-tumble side as well, making her the perfect foil for my frequent escapades. In common with most little 'girls,' I enjoyed a good tickling every now and then, but more importantly, I loved Karla's undivided attention whenever she dropped round for the afternoon.

I think Karla picked up on it early on, because she started "punishing" my high jinx with extremely long tickling sessions, sometimes lasting more than fifteen minutes with intermittent breathers. My sisters, Tanya and Lydia, usually joined in the festivities, making sure I never got off too lightly. Much as I dreaded these protracted marathons, I still looked forward to Karla's weekly visits and often dared her to chase me down for a tickling. I simply could not help myself; I always believed that I'd get away with it this time.

From the very start, I urged her on with incessant mischief. At first, she would jokingly warn me off, threatening me with the most diabolical torments imaginable. Naturally, this would only make me more determined to push the limits as far as possible. Within a few seconds, I'd be playing the nuisance while she tried to read a book on the sofa (or whatever). I never knew when the warnings were going to run out (that was a crucial part of the excitement), so I always screamed like a banshee when my ordeal began.

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