Dr. Phasma's office is as no nonsense as the woman herself, and within the four beige colored walls that comprise it, Ben has had to face many uncomfortable truths. On the Chesterfield sofa he is currently occupying, he has confided in her his feelings of inadequacy, his struggle with his temper and the sordid details of his family life.
He has also, embarrassingly, discussed his lack of any other relationships, platonic or otherwise. He has a distinct inability to form connections with other human beings, and a natural aptitude for pushing people away.
Which is why, he assumes quite pathetically, Dr. Phasma—his therapist—might be the closest thing he has to a friend.
"There is a new form of therapy that I think could be very beneficial to you," she tells him in her posh British accent, thumbing through the pages of a thick binder resting in her lap. It's the culmination of her notes from their sessions.
It's grown fatter over the months he's been seeing her, a record of his progress and setbacks. The testament of his fuck ups all sandwiched neatly between plastic covers.
He often wonders what it is in it, exactly.
Maybe it's just doodles, or grocery lists.
But then, she's never given him a reason to believe that she doesn't take her job seriously.
That is until she says, "It's called touch therapy, are you familiar with the concept?"
"No," he replies flatly, but it isn't in answer to her question, it's a refusal of her suggestion.
He's familiar enough with the concept to know that touch therapy, on some level, must involve touch.
Dr. Phasma smiles politely at him, "I can see you're having some negative feelings towards the idea. Why don't you let me explain it first, and then we can address any concerns you may have?"
Ben heaves a heavy sigh, but gestures for her to continue.
"Thank You. Now, what I have in mind for you is something called Cuddle Therapy."
His eyes widen in disbelief. "You can't be serious, that's a thing?"
It sounds…disgusting.
"Yes," Dr. Phasma replies smoothly, "It is. The therapists in that field are trained to work with elements of the nervous system and biochemistry. They address common adjustment disorders in a safe, interpersonal container."
"And what the hell does that mean, in layman's terms?"
Dr. Phasma fixes her glacier blue eyes on him, and with not a trace of a humor says, "You'll spend a few hours each week getting hugged."
"Jesus Christ," Ben mutters, passing a hand over his face, "You're serious?"
"I know it sounds unusual," she concedes fairly. Ben thinks that's putting it very lightly. It sounds...well, like a nightmare, for someone like him. Interacting with strangers is not his forte, never mind spending hours letting one hug him.
"But the healing effects of touch are quite extensive, particularly with anxiety, stress and self-esteem issues. I think it could be very good for you. Of course, it's entirely your decision and you don't need to make it right now. I have some materials for you to take home. Look them over, do some research and please, keep an open mind."
Ben takes the stacks of pamphlets from her hand, eyes skimming over the colorful spread of smiling faces, men and women wearing deep purple shirts with lettering on them that reads "snugglist."
He still can't believe this is real, that it isn't Dr. Phasma's idea of a joke.
It'd be funny, if it were. He'd have really appreciated her humor.
Now, he wonders if she, too, might be in need of some therapy.
Once at home, he stuffs the pamphlets into the junk drawer in his kitchen, where they remain, untouched but not forgotten, for the rest of the week.
He has medication to dampen some of the symptoms of his depression, but there is, as they say, no cure for loneliness. It's a battle that wars in him daily, his intolerance of most of humanity and his craving for human companionship outside of the strained relationship he has with his parents.
It's that empty, desperate ache that makes him reluctantly and grudgingly consider booking an appointment.
He grabs a beer from his fridge, and pops the cap off as he peruses the pamphlets.
For the most part, they supply the same information that Dr. Phasma had told him, explaining what it is they offer. It's reinforced with testimonials from clients and therapists alike.
Then, he finds an information sheet detailing their code of conduct, and cringes as he reads it.
There is an entire section devoted to improper touching and the explicit forbidding of any exchange of bodily fluids, and he can't help but wonder how many people mistake this company as a cover for a prostitution ring.
If Dr. Phasma hadn't suggested it, Ben would probably have also questioned it's legitimacy.
It just seems so outlandish, so much so that he's torn between laughing or crying for even considering it.
Has he really sunk this low? Has it really come to this?
The answer he finds, after another handful of beers that cloud his decision making, is yes. Yes, apparently it has.
Appointments are booked on the companies website, where he can read through the profiles of snugglists-ugh—in his area, and then decide for himself which one to choose.
The trouble is that there is only one in his locality.
Her name is Rey, and according to her profile she's nineteen years old and wants to make others feel connected and valued. She likes helping bring the light out in people, whatever that means, and does incalls at her home, as well as outcalls to anywhere within city limits.
There is a photo included of her 'work space' that looks cozy in a bohemian sort of way. There are lots of house plants and sunshine pouring in through uncovered windows. A brown, overstuffed sofa covered in colorful throw pillows is pushed against a wall strung with Christmas lights.
As per the companies policy, there are no photos of her. Apparently a snugglist should be chosen based on what they are offering and not their appearance.
It's not like he has many options anyway, seeing as she's the only one in town.
So, with his head still firmly in the comfortable fog of tipsiness, and liquid courage thrumming in his veins, Ben registers and books an appointment for the following day.
Tomorrow, he'll hate himself for it.
Authors Note: Thanks for reading! Come follow me on tumblr droid-activist