OK, I feel it starting to creep up on me. That need to be held. That need to be kissed and touched and adored, and to have someone throw their arms around me as the autumn light seeps through the blinds on a Sunday morning.



This is the need that drives me to unwise decisions. It is not a need for s*x, mind you. That will come later, and will drive me to even more unwise decisions.



This is a human need right? It’s not just me, right? Or maybe I was just held a lot as a baby or something.



I remember when I first started seeing Indie Rock Dad. There had been a dry spell, punctuated by only brief cloudbursts, when he first took me in his arms and asked, with bedroom eyes, “Do you trust me?”



“Yes,” I said. And I let him have his way with me.



“No,” I should have said, “but I’m hungry for love.”



And I didn’t trust him – not that first time, not ever – but I convinced myself I did, because I so much wanted to be held, because he offered me his warm embrace and his own confused version of love. And for three months, the power of touch made me feel like myself again.



Now? Well. I’m tempted to crawl into beds I shouldn’t crawl into for the sake of that drug. So far I’ve resisted, but how long can that last?