by Penny Reid
“I think those people exist,” Sandra said, completing her row and glancing at Kat. “They charge hourly.”
“What are you talking about?” Elizabeth chuckled, shaking her head.
“Very funny, Sandra.” Fiona gave Sandra a patient smile.
“It’s true,” Sandra defended, her eyes wide. “They’re called professional cuddlers. We have them here, in Chicago. They’ll come to your apartment, or sometimes you meet in a studio with a bunch of other cuddlers, or even a hotel.”
I wrinkled my nose, swapping a disbelieving stare with Kat.
But then Janie said, “She’s right. It’s a real thing. Check out cuddlebuddies.com. And there’s a book called The Cuddle Sutra.”
“You’re making this up.” Kat’s eyes bounced between Janie and Sandra.
“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?”
“What? No.” Derek or Matt or whatever his name was turned his big brown eyes to me and shook his head. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” This question came from Alex, and plunged the room into stark silence. Alex was .
. . well, he was odd. And his voice had a certain quality, one that forced you to listen to it and to him. But presently, something about his tone made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight.
He-who-claimed-to-be-Matt glanced at Alex and he surveyed the younger man. “It was in pursuit of science. An experiment.”
“An experiment?” Alex asked, looking dissatisfied with the answer.
“What do you mean experiment?” Sandra stood, her hands on her hips.
“Uh, it’s what’s called a deception study. Self-reported behaviors are riddled with bias. So we observe in a non-traditional laboratory setting. Only,” Matt turned an apologetic smile on me, “I’m not usually the one taking the interview. Dr. Merek typically fills that role.”
“Who is Dr. Merek?” I asked dumbly, not at all following the conversation.
“Derek,” Matt said simply, as though this explained everything.
“What?” Elizabeth was growing impatient.
“Derek is Dr. Merek. Dr. Derek Merek,” Matt clarified.
“What an unfortunate name,” Janie said with a small frown.
“What are you talking about? It rhymes.” Sandra shook her head at our friend. “I’ve always wanted a rhyming name, but nothing rhymes with Sandra.”
Crossing my arms, I ignored Sandra’s nonsense and pointed my questions at Matt. “So you’re not Derek.”
“No. Not usually. I’m not as good at the interviews as he is.” He scratched his neck, adding self-deprecatingly, “Or much else, for that matter.”
“You mean you’ve done this before? Posed as your friend?” Elizabeth demanded.
“No. I don’t pose as my friend. He’s my colleague. The profile for ‘Derek Simmons’ is fake. We created it based on aggregate preferences of our target sample group. We have permission from the website’s owners.”
Both Sandra and Elizabeth made similar expressions, as though they were absorbing this information and understood his meaning.
Meanwhile, I shared a confused look with Kat.
“In English, please,” she asked softly.
“Oh, sorry.” He gave her a polite, contrite smile. “We’re looking for subjects—or participants if you prefer that word—who are in their thirties, are working professionals, and have never been married. We looked for patterns in responses for this demographic. We found clusters of likes and dislikes, then created fictional profiles to match these subjects’ preferences.”
Every word out of his mouth grated. “So you created a fake profile to match my likes and dislikes?”
“Not just yours, but women like you. You know, the same shows, interests, music preferences. You’d be surprised how similar you are to other women with your demographics: single, age, education, and income level. Actually, you’re all basically the same person.”
I winced, feeling as though I’d been slapped. Or at least all the air had been driven out of me. The room plunged into dead quiet.
Women like you.
You’d be surprised by how similar you are.
You’re all basically the same person.
That. Stung.
But why did those words sting so much?
“You don’t know her.” This accusation, for it truly sounded like an accusation, came from Janie. “Just because an individual shares common interests with a similar demographic profile doesn’t make them the same person. We all enjoy wine, that doesn’t make us basically the same person!” Her voice lifted until she was nearly shouting. Alex had stealthily approached during her rant and wrapped his arm around her shoulders; Janie appeared ready to jump over the couch and strangle Matt.
“Yes. Of course.” Matt turned a smile to Janie laced with frustration. “I suppose I should apologize. I have a habit of summarizing life into if/then statements, or categorizing people in terms of the aggregate data available on groups with similar profiles. It’s an occupational hazard and I truly do not mean any offense.”
“What is your occupation?” Sandra asked, squinting at him.
“I’m a computer scientist with a focus on AI.”
“AI?” Kat challenged.
“Artificial intelligence.”
Sandra’s squint intensified. “You mean like that creepy movie with the evil robot—”
“Ex Machina, and she wasn’t evil. She just wanted her freedom.” This came from Ashley over Skype. “And would y’all move to one side, I can’t see a thing.”
“She was evil. She killed that adorable Domhnall Gleeson,” Sandra said.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” Ashley shrugged. “Domhnall Gleeson doesn’t do it for me.”
“What did you mean by deception study?” Elizabeth brought us back on track. “I thought those required an informed consent after participation, so subjects could opt in or out once the data is collected.”
“We’ve received approval from our ethics board to conduct a one-time interview and ascertain true preferences from the subjects.” Matt’s tone was conversationally academic and it made me want to give him paper cuts. Lots and lots of paper cuts. “Usually we consent after the interview, but M-Marie,” he stumbled over my name, his gaze flickering to mine and then away, “left before I could administer post-hoc consent. As I’ve said, I’m not very good at conducting the interviews.” His gaze shifted to me again and held. His smile was carefully detached, like he’d erected a wall between us. “Again, I apologize if I ruined your afternoon by being a ‘weirdo.’”
No one said anything for a long moment, during which I wrestled with this new information.
My date had been part of an experiment.
I had been an experiment.
And I was just like every other woman out there in my demographic.
Apparently, we’re all the same.
I think, on some level, we’d all like to believe we’re special. That something—be it tangible or intangible—makes each person unique.
I considered myself a confident individual. Yes, of course, I knew I had room for improvement. I didn’t think I was in any way perfect, but I’d reached a point in my life where I was happy with myself as a whole. I didn’t want a life partner to complete my life, but as a complement to my life.
Yet something about being told, statistically, I was basically the same as every other woman with similar demographics made me feel immeasurably insignificant. And wretched.
“You’re not a good guy,” Janie said, breaking the silence with her flat declaration. “You should know that so you can try to change yourself for the better.”
Derek—er, Matt—glanced at her, inspecting her openly in a way that reminded me of a scientist inspecting a curious-looking insect. He didn’t appear to be at all offended by her comment, or surprised by it. The irony here, which wasn’t at all lost on me, was that the way he looked at Janie was how she used to look at people when they said something surprising.
Now pregnant, she just looked at everyone with varying degrees of intense irritation.
I gathered a deep breath, ignoring a sudden urge to curl up on Fiona’s comfy sofa and request Sandra spoon me. She would if I asked. Sandra loved to cuddle and I hadn’t cuddled with another person since my ex.
I miss cuddling. Maybe I do need a professional cuddler.
Greg cleared his throat, drawing my attention to him. He was looking at me with pointed intensity, a silent question behind his concerned gaze. Are you okay?
Quickly, I grabbed ahold of my emotions and yanked them back, pasting a smile on my lips; it was another of those situations where I didn’t know how widely to smile. “Well. I guess that explains that.” I tried shrugging, imbuing my voice with false bravado. “No harm no foul.”
Fiona’s tone was infinitely gentle as she said, “Marie—”
“We should all get back to our evening,” I said firmly, not wanting to talk about it, not until I had time to myself and definitely not in front of imposter-Derek. I needed to sort through my own messy feelings. “We should let Greg an
d, uh, Matt go on their run.”
“Right,” Greg said reluctantly, his eyes moving past me to his wife, adding a few seconds later, “let’s go.”
The tall Brit’s frown was severe. He didn’t look at Matt as he turned, merely gesturing for the shorter man to follow while he disappeared down the hall. Matt moved his dispassionate stare from Janie, and his eyes collided with mine once more. I lifted my chin, glaring at him. He gave me a tight smile and then left, following Greg.
“Don’t listen to him, Marie.” Ashley raised her voice after the front door closed, forcing my attention to the laptop screen. Her face filled the entire space. “That guy is what we call a douche canoe.”
“You should move.” Janie turned her grumpy expression on Fiona as Alex removed his hands—no longer needing to restrain her—and stuffed them in his pockets. He traded a sideways glance with his wife. “Otherwise,” Janie continued, “I might be forced to punch that guy in the throat.”
Fiona inspected me for a short moment, and then gave Janie a weary smile as Sandra and Elizabeth reclaimed their seats. “Actually, we are moving. We’ve been putting it off for months, but with the baby, we’ll do it within the next year. This place is too small for five people.”
“Move to our building,” Elizabeth suggested, sneaking me a surreptitious glance while she addressed Fiona. “You know Quinn would love having you close by so he can pick your ninja brain more often.”
Quinn, Janie’s husband, ran a wildly successful global security firm and owned several floors in a building overlooking Grant Park. The apartments were reserved for employees of his firm, but Elizabeth and Nico lived in one of the penthouses, as did Janie and Quinn. As Alex worked for Quinn’s corporate subsidiary, Cipher Systems, he and Sandra also lived in the building. Fiona had also recently accepted a contract position with Cipher Systems.
“Then Greg can go jogging with Quinn instead of that douche canoe,” Janie mumbled, her lip curled into a subtle snarl as she rubbed her lower back.
If I hadn’t been so off-kilter and preoccupied by recent events, I might’ve laughed. Truly, Janie had become a different person over the last few months.