The key to a good hug is to pick a time when you’re not likely to segue over from affection to fornication. No grasping him close, only to then start to tear off his clothes. That’s not a good hug; it’s just hormones.

A good hug is not sexual, and it’s one that could last forever; where time and space vanish or shrink to occupy only the little bubble around two huggers.

When the rough-soft skin of his back sear hot on cold hands, and you just close your eyes and feel the lingering traces of the morning’s splash or after-shave mingle with the salt-traced smell of his sweat – it’s a good hug. When the wet brief heat of his minty breath touch your ear from behind, it’s a good hug.

If that thing in your pants starts to grow and swell and demand immediate release, know that you didn’t want the hug. There’s a time and place for everything, and the inhabitant in your pants has no place in a hug. No, when you stand there and just squint and smell and feel the fluttering and liquid warmth spread from your heart out to the tip of your toes and fingers like streams of electricity, that’s a good hug. A good hug wants to last forever and nothing can distract it. A hug that fades from animal needs is not a good hug.

I’m lucky to have someone who is naturally huggy, and I have over the years come to appreciate its own distinct charm. Like being held tight by someone who runs strong fingers through my unruly hair. Like being held close by someone who starts to massage my neck or back. Good hugs aren’t frequent, or infrequent. I’m lucky that way.

In the end the good hug, rather than the good sex, is why love lives and breathes. It is the time in front of the telly, or the time after sex when the animal need has been sated, or the time when we come home and meet again that carries love with it.

I got a good hug today, and I love extra much. I can’t remember what life without good hugs was like. It must have been so poor and lacking. Because, love lives in the hugs. Cheesy as it undoubtedly sounds, I love him so much it’s insane. It’s probably not even healthy. Even now, after years together, I can sometimes look at him and feel my heart skip a beat as I’m filled with that heat, that flutter, that tingle in my whole body. And then I just want to hug him; with a good, ever-lasting hug.

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