12. Belly Hugs

My primary work-friend group converged for happy hour to recap today’s layoff announcements. But fortunately (or unfortunately for those who thrive on gossip), there had been so much lead-up to Announcement Day that there wasn’t much to recap.

So we moved on to more interesting subjects: cooking, condemned buildings, small children, sangria, and the merits of box wine (Target’s model has an available cozie to keep it cold while on the go).

From boxed wines we leapt to the entertaining, if non sequitur, topic of hugging. Specifically, whether it’s appropriate to hug someone you’ve just met. How much body contact is allowed in a hug. And if kissing in greeting is a male British thing or a unisex British thing (yes yes…kissing isn’t hugging…but it’s still a curious point to ponder).

A small aside before I go further.

It’s generally accepted in happy hour circles that there are three types of people:

• Huggers wrap enthusiastically wrap their arms around everyone and anyone. They just can’t seem to keep themselves from fully clothed, double armed, complete torso contact. You’ve met them. Or you are one.
• Moderates are agnostic about hugging. They’re not adverse to it, but also not particularly into initiating. They’re happy to hug or not hug, depending on the person they’re dealing with.
• Not-A-Huggers seek to avoid hugs. When forced, they’ll side-arm or A-line hug (shoulders engaged, cursory back pats, no torso contact). But generally they deflect hugs altogether. In fact, they are often heard saying things like, “OK – well – good to see you. Oh no no, it’s ok. I’m Not-a-hugger.”

I am Not-a-Hugger. Nearly everyone knows I’m Not-a-Hugger. Those unsympathic to my Not-a-Hugger tendencies try to talk me into becoming at least a Moderate hugger. Because seriously – hugging isn’t that bad.

And now. Further.

The Sofie-is-Not-a-Hugger teasing started. Someone threatened immediate, multiple Belly Hugs. I squirmed. Everyone laughed. Two individuals looked confused; they hadn’t heard about Belly Hugs.

I promised to tell them. But then I thought through the story again. 

********

I’d recently broken up with someone, and went on a pseudo-date with a friend who’d also recently split. To me it was a concert at a fun venue. To him it was a rebounding opportunity. Through the course of the evening, my date got quite tipsy. He sidled closer and closer. His bright yellow soccer jersey leaned in, close my t-shirt. He started kissing my head. Tried to entice me to dance (to rather undanceable music, I might add). Hugged me. But I knew the guy; he was a sweetheart, and I was still a little lonely after my breakup. So I humored him.

Eventually the concert was over, or perhaps we lost interest. A few minutes later we were back at my house. And I realized my pseudo-date wasn’t just tipsy.

He was drunk. Very drunk. And he was ready for a make-out session.

I was sitting on the couch, rigidly upright, while he sprawled on his side, propped up against me. He wanted to get closer, slithered around lengthwise, yet somehow ended up merely half-laying across my lap. Overly wet kiss followed overly wet kiss. His lips explored the lips surrounding my mouth, rather than my actual mouth. My chin started to collecting his drool. Pseudo-date pressed forward, pushing his mouth against mine harder and harder. I leaned backward, feeling my couch give way under the pressure of trying to scoot away from his mouth bruises. I think our teeth collided.

His blood-shot eyes looked deeply into mine. He said something slurry and unintelligible.

I offered water, the only thing I could think of to break away from the drool and alcohol breath. I extracted myself. He seemed to follow me toward the kitchen. But then paused midway to dance. Or strip. Or just sway awkardly – holding onto the hem of his bright yellow jersey for stability. I couldn’t tell.

I started to walk past him, back to the couch. Tried to figure out what to do with him – since clearly he was in no shape to drive home.

And that’s when he started swaying toward me. Still holding the hem of his jersey. Except now he wasn’t just holding the edge of bright yellow, but lifting it. 

Psuedo-date’s puffy white belly appeared from beneath his bright yellow soccer jersey. It jiggled as he got closer. I froze.

My back was close to the wall; I didn’t have much room to maneuver.

And that’s when it happened.

Sliding the bright yellow soccer jersey – every so slowly – to up around his nipples, he moved in. Puffy white belly landed first, square upon mine. I could feel his drunk clamminess through my t-shirt.

And then he wiggled his hips. His belly – still firmly against mine - reverberated in response. He dropped the hem of his bright yellow soccer jersey. It landed in the valley where our two bellies collided.

His arms came up and around me.

He squeezed my waist, breathing heavily into my neck. I could feel the wad of jersey between us.

We stood there. Belly to belly. Hugging.

********

Maybe I won’t tell the work-friends about it after all.

Every day another story -

Sofie