Touch

I should begin by saying that I hate being touched.

I hate the invasion of my personal space; I hate the awkwardness of moving together; I hate the inappropriateness of it all, as if someone was trying to get inside me - something which very few people are allowed to do.

Friends say I'm frigid. They ask if I'm a germophobe, or simply a bitch. But I'm not: I just genuinely despise the process of touching people, regardless if hte intrusion comes from a stranger on a crowded bus or an unwelcome acquaintance.

That said, with the prolonged abscence of physical contact, touch becomes everything.

I haven't been touched on purpose in months, and so I savour the sensations of everything around me.

Without a person to inflict said touch, I rely on myself: the feel of clothes pressing against my skin like a stubbled beard, of hair grazing the back of my neck, like a stray and curious nose - the pull of a ribbon around my waist signals as much passion as I've been a party to these past few months.

There is a certain something in touch that can't be ignored. Perhaps it's because it's one of the only senses in which I'm not lacking: with horrible eyesight, partial deafness, a tongue rendered useless by endless quantities of coffee and cigarettes, and a nose wasted by chronic infection, touch is my only recourse.

Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that I feel so very, poignantly, disconnected from humanity of late. I fantasize about friendly hugs, knowing that my street cred as an uptight and polished - sarcastic, even, some would say - citizen would be irreparably damaged by just reaching out and asking for it. What's a girl to do?

If touch is so evisceratingly, so infatuatingly important -- and I'm not prepared to become a shiny, happy person -- I really only have two options: get a boyfriend, or get a cat.

Humane society, here I come!