U CAN TOUCH THIS
IT’S AROUND the 23-second mark during a hug with a stranger that I open my eyes and wonder what the hell I’m doing. I’ve met up with Amanda Souza, a 32-year-old Brazilian cuddle therapist at a bar in Bondi. After a brief chat about her profession, Souza and I are putting theory into practice.
As we stand there, two strangers locked in a fervent embrace as the bar’s midweek patrons sip their pale ales, I’m conscious that this is probably the first hug I’ve had in a long time where I feel uninhibited. Most of the time when a friend or colleague wraps their arms around me, my natural reaction is to stiffen. My arms become lead rods, my torso armour-plated. If it’s a female, I’m conscious of not betraying any signs of genuine affection, lest I be seen as a creep. On the rare occasions that it’s a male that I’m awkwardly entangled with, I’m even more restrained. We’ll slap each other on the back as we hug, attempting perhaps to reinforce our masculinity and douse any suspicions about our sexuality.
But with Souza I don’t have to worry about how our hug will be construed. Her status as a professional hugger removes much of the social awkwardness that often accompanies this intimate act, allowing me to focus on the hug itself. I close my eyes again and feel Souza’s warm hands moving tenderly across my back. As we stand there, the noise of idle chatter and clinking glasses humming around us, it dawns on me that I don’t want this hug to end. I feel like our souls are engaged in some kind of tactile communion. I feel her hair on my earlobe, a sensation that causes my
