“No. We’re not. I swear.” Sandra shook her head vehemently.
“She’s not making it up,” Alex said, strolling out of the kitchen. “There’re even professional dry humpers in New York and I think a few in Los Angeles.”
My mouth fell open in shock while Elizabeth, Kat, Fiona, and I blinked at each other.
“I think you mean prostitutes,” Greg offered dryly.
“No.” Alex almost smiled—almost—and met Greg’s sardonic glare. “Not prostitutes.”
“You’re telling me people pay for this? Cuddling and dry humping with no penetration?” Greg was just as disbelieving as the rest of us. “Sounds like a complete waste of resources.”
I only forgave him that comment because I knew Greg. I knew he was being purposefully obtuse to make a point. He often did this: espouse opinions that were the opposite of what he believed in order to make a point.
“Yes. That’s what we’re telling you,” Janie responded. “Clients pay by the hour, or fraction of an hour. Based on The Washington Post article I read, most cuddlers have regular clients and the idea is grounded in the same foundation as touch therapy and Reiki, only with less oversight and training in most cases.”
Kat sighed loudly, drawing my attention to her. Her expression was one part confused and one part distressed. “That’s so sad.”
“What’s sad?” Sandra asked evenly.
“That a person would resort to paying for cuddling, for human touch.” Kat now looked completely distressed.
“I don’t know. I think it makes a lot of sense.” Sandra moved her attention to her knitting as Alex sat next to her. “And I don’t consider it sad, necessarily. Think about the elderly for instance, those with no family. Cuddling, holding another person’s hand, can bring so much comfort. Babies need it in order for their brain to develop correctly. And if a person is alone in the world, why shouldn’t they have an opportunity to receive that comfort?”
Janie nodded. “And what about people who don’t have time for a relationship? Or aren’t ready for one?” Her tone was thoughtful—more like pre-pregnancy Janie—as she philosophized. “Human touch, affectionate touch in particular, has been shown to be necessary for sustained happiness. If a person can’t be in a relationship for whatever reason, professional cuddlers provide a valuable service.”
Once again, Kat and I shared a glance, likely because we were the only two single people in the room.
Kat swallowed and I saw she did so with some effort, a flash of something like pain shadowing her expression. She then cleared her throat, her gaze lowering to her yarn. “I guess, when you put it like that, professional cuddlers are a better choice than other behaviors, which might be seen as destructive.”
“Exactly,” Janie said. “All things considered, I believe paying a professional for a defined service—where expectations are clear-cut—is far superior to using another person for physical contact and potentially engaging their feelings with no plans for reciprocation.”
“Well, yeah. I guess I see your point.” Elizabeth’s tone was serious, almost grave, and her stare became unfocused. “After the death of a loved one, for example . . .”
“Sorry,” Ashley piped up, “but no. It still sounds creepy to me. I wouldn’t want some stranger paying me to touch them, even for therapeutic reasons.”
“Says the nurse,” Alex teased.
“Ha, ha. Well played.” Ashley gave him a face even through her laughter, and their banter broke the somewhat tense moment.
“You ladies always have the most enlightening conversations,” Greg said, stroking his chin as he moved his narrowed gaze over the room.
Meanwhile, Janie swallowed the last of her water, then glared at the bottle as though it had insulted her. “It’s empty.”
“Let me get you some more.” I stood and stretched, happy for an excuse to move around. “Do you want ice?”
Janie nodded, handing over the bottle with one hand and rubbing her belly with the other. “The dictator in my stomach says yes.”
Fiona giggled. “Dictator.”
A knock sounded from the direction of the front door and Greg stood from the couch, sharing a small smile with his wife.
“Autocrat. Fascist. Emperor or Empress. Whatever. Its royal highness wishes for ice.”
“Janie, you make me never want to be pregnant.” Kat frowned with concern at our friend. “Are your muscle cramps getting any better?”
“No. And now I’m peeing myself every time I stand up. Or when I walk. Or sit. Or lie down,” Janie said, her tone surly. “But don’t use my pregnancy as a datapoint. Look at Fiona. She’s glowing.”
“Okay, Matt and I are heading out. Do you want me to pick anything up?” Greg asked, standing at the precipice to the family room, a figure hovering just behind him for a brief moment before stepping to Greg’s side.
I glanced at them on my way to the kitchen and then stopped short, doing a startled double take.
Because the man standing next to Greg was that man.
That man.
My not-perfect match from the coffee shop.
Here. Now. Standing in Fiona’s apartment.
What the flipping fracking fresh hell is this?
“It’s you,” I blurted before I knew what I was doing, raising an accusing finger at the newcomer. “It’s him!”
3
Atlas Robot
A high mobility, humanoid robot designed to negotiate outdoor, rough terrain. Atlas can walk bipedally leaving the upper limbs free to lift, carry, and manipulate the environment. The design and production of it was overseen by the DARPA, an agency of the United States Department of Defense.
Source: Boston Dynamics
Derek’s eyes darted to mine, and they widened with recognition and surprise.
“It’s him?” Sandra looked up from her work in progress, as did everyone else. “Him who?”
“Derek!” I shook my hand in his direction and had no compunction about adding, “The weirdo from the coffee shop.”
“Weirdo?” Derek asked, standing a bit straighter, his forehead wrinkling in that way I thought might have been adorable before I determined he was a psychopath.
“That’s Derek?” Elizabeth’s frowning gaze bounced back and forth between us.
He lifted his hands, palms out in the universal gesture for calm down. “I can explain—”
“Matt?” Fiona questioned sharply, her brow creasing with suspicion.
“Yes. I’m Matt. But she’s also correct.” He lifted his chin toward me and said evenly, “I was Derek, or sometimes I’m Derek.”
I flinched, my mind a muddled mess. “What? How can someone ‘sometimes’ go by a different name?”
“Sometimes you’re Derek?” Sandra set her knitting to one side, her tone gaining a hard edge. “What does that mean?”
“You filthy bird.” Greg sounded delighted. “Have you been posing as a fetishist named Derek?”