You’re on a subway -- there’s a homeless guy way too close to you. He’s cramped in between businessmen on pain pills and glue-sniffing punks. He is in the area normally reserved for intimate acts like hugging and whispering (6-18 inches from you); you can smell the whisky on his breath, the three-dimensional stank wafting up off him. And you want him to back off, to get off at the next stop? You want personal space? You’re crazy.

Here’s how I look at it. In a situation like this, packed like proverbial sardines in a can, I say enjoy it. Sure, this homeless guy is dirty, even hideous, but getting your crotch rubbed is still getting your crotch rubbed. Close your eyes, imagine that sweat-stained, crusty corduroy covered leg is a sexy woman’s butt and the subway ride will transform to an intrusive, uncomfortable hell into a fantastic, creamy fantasy.

I find that in a world where the population increases everyday and people are getting exponentially fatter, it is harder and harder to maintain your own “personal space.” You may be in an elevator, in a line at Disney Land, or at sporting event and you realize that you can’t move with knocking someone over. The thing is, there ain't enough room for all of us to not be touching. So let’s make the best of the situation.

Last night, in a hip nightclub when “My Humps” came on, I would have of course have liked to have about a three foot radius in which to shake my groove thing. But this place was packed, and I felt like Han Solo when he was entombed in carbonite in The Empire Strikes Back, except I was instead entombed in club-goers. I could have whined, push my way out or felt violated. Instead, I took the chance to grope every living creature in my reach. I wasn’t even sure what it was I was touching but it was always soft, moist and hairless, so hopefully these parts were all from females. The best thing about it was that I could pretend that it was the curves of the hottest women in the room. The second best thing was that it was so crowded that these girls had no idea who was rubbing up on them. Some of them thought that maybe I was their hot lesbian lover, so they asked for more. I obliged.

I’ve also taken my joy of touch to the DMV, where I will stand extremely close to the person in front of me. Last time it was a woman who was maybe eighty. Her hair was tickling my upper lip, her wrinkled neck pressed against my abdomen. I loved it. I’ve tried it at TCBY and got a little sticky. I’ve done it at Denny’s and got burned. I performed my sneaky act at a circus and accidentally pissed off a tiger. Be careful about that, by the way -- they do not like you to touch their inner thigh.

You see, we humans are suckers for intimate contact. That’s why we get cats and dogs, so we can touch them. There’s a connection you can make by placing skin on skin that you can’t do any other way. And why limit this connection to lovers, family and friends? The whole world is full of skin-having people. The world is my cuddle party, that’s what I say.

My ultimate fantasy is to be stuck in a bomb shelter with a bunch of Victoria’s Secret Models. They would all be in their frilly panties and such, and I would shiver every time they bumped into me. And they would have to do this all the time, because the shelter would be built for ten people… and there would be fourteen models. Yes! But until that comes true (I’m still in the planning stages) I will settle for the groping I can get in the supermarket, in the club, on the beach, in a hospital room, wherever, there is insufficient space and lots and lots of people.