The Hug Reflex

It was still dark outside. I sleep without the curtains drawn — perhaps inviting anyone to somehow filter through the glass and slip under the covers with me. I fumbled for my glasses and wiped the sleep from my eyes, trying to focus on the small blue glow of my phone. The air was cold, but I was cocooned in my duvet. The dog heard me stir and leapt onto the bed, settling beside me as I began my search: hugging services near me.

I felt in desperate need of being held. Not in a sexual way — just the simple relief of human contact.

I wouldn’t want it from any random person, but from someone who understands the value of a hug — someone maternal, who knows how to reassure without words, to express kindness through touch.

When I woke a little more fully, I felt faintly embarrassed, though the need persisted. Looking back, neither of my parents were great huggers. My father preferred to shake hands, and if I ever hugged him, I could sense the stiffness ripple through his shoulders. With my mother, it’s more complicated. She wants desperately to be close, but something in her stops her short, as if affection were a language she never quite mastered.

My wife is away in the UK, and I’m here with the dog. She’s not built for hugging — she’ll tolerate a scratch behind the ears or along her back, but that’s the extent of her generosity.

It occurred to me that I can’t be the only one who feels this way. Perhaps I could advertise free hugs — that way I wouldn’t have to pay, and I’d get multiple hugs at once. Though I suppose I’d have to watch out for opportunists. I had a vision of someone slipping their hands into my pockets mid-embrace, trying to steal my wallet. The thought made me laugh, even as the need remained — ridiculous and tender, like so many human longings.