Ambushed

Aunt Marge ambushed me when I was a kid, attacked me with vicious hugs that left my face buried in her clothes, forcing familiarity with body parts I wanted nothing to do with. Forced hug trauma has followed me into adulthood. How can I trust anyone?
Now, as a senior, hugging has taken on new complexities. I must follow unwritten rules if I don't wish to be sued or arrested. No hugs longer than one second. Minimal touching on chest to chest hugs, limited pressure with side hugs where hip winds up in the other's groin, and absolutely no rear hugs unless serious drinking is involved.
Some women like hugging me, especially in winter when I'm wearing my flannel shirts. It makes me feel fatherly, like I'm a comfort station. It is a cold world out there.
I do enjoy hugging myself, except on public transportation. Any self hugging lasting more than five seconds crosses a boundary.
At some future point I'd like to explore the air kissing phenomenon, which, for some of us, raises false hopes for future flesh to flesh contact. How often my hopes have been dashed by a sophisticated socialite playing with my feelings.