As many of may know, I run an Evil Toys is Us. Run means manage. Evil toys for an evil world. It doesn't bother me much, but as a manager, I have employees. Not many, but enough. Any at all is enough for someone who doesn't like people.
On Thursday, April 1st, it came to my attention that a young woman in my employ (who I have not slept with) was busy having her birthday, but had kept it from everyone so we wouldn't make a fuss. Good for her, I say. Although, it could've been a ploy to make us make more of a fuss. She might be that insidious; it's hard to tell.
It turned out another woman (who I have also not slept with) in my employ was also having a birthday. The two women had never met.
One sits in my office droning on about some such problem, to which I nod and smile and refrain from staring at her somewhat large-ish breasts. One thing leads to another and somehow I happen to mention she's not the only one having a birthday. One thing still leading to another, the woman in my office asks to meet the young woman who has the same birthday as her.
I introduce them. They're both suddenly dressed in smiles, then before I know it they're hugging and giggling and making other girly noises. I can't explain it. I can only attest to it, having witnessed it (and been a tad bit aroused by it for reasons obvious to any man).
Inside I'm thinking, "Why are you hugging each other? You don't know each other? The only similarity between you is that you both have ovaries that popped into being on the same day."
The last time I hugged another man was more than a decade ago. It was my father, right after he told me he was dying.
Men don't hug. We can hug. We have the ability. We have the know how. We choose not to.
Oh, if we'd served time in a war zone together or one of us had saved the pilot from drowning right after he managed to ditch us in the bay without killing us . . . then we might hug on the ten year reunion of the disaster. Hell, we might even sprinkle a few tears.
I do hug my nephews, but they're kids. If they were grown men, I'd probably punch them in the face, because, y'know, I like them.
These two women now have lunch every day. They appear to be best friends.
If this had been two men, we would've remarked on the coincidence of our similar birthdays then preceded on to business or, well, something else, all the while discreetly trying not to be obvious in our ogling of all nearby women.
If this had been a man and a woman, the same, except there would've been half as much ogling, and probably twice the amount of discretion.
If this had been two gay men, well, probably the same as two women, hugging, but then things that in no way resemble anything discreet.
Here's why men don't hug:
We don't have breasts.
You can't possibly need more of an explanation than that.
There's no squishy, sexual organs. If you're a woman, think about why you hug a man and what you want to feel. Do you like feeling small, protected, wrapped up safely in his arms, all cuddled and cozy? Now think about what a man wants to feel. He wants to feel big and strong, like a protector and possibly just a hint of nipple against his chest. It's tough for a man to feel those things when he's hugging another man who also wants to feel those things. See? But two women embracing can both feel safe and cuddled and cozy.
Plus, the breasts.
Read the damn comic.
Aaron Diaz Hoal