My first touch of the day was at work, while waiting for the elevator.

One of our programmers looked like he was having a bad morning, and, after much deliberation, I removed my hand from my pocket, and patted him on the shoulder.

The second was with Craig, a Sales Rep, who I high-fived over a Calgary Flames trade on my way to the bathroom.

The third and fourth were handshakes with customers, something I normally never do.

The fifth was to give Leon a friendly punch in the shoulder.

I cycled home that night feeling accomplished.

‘Touch five people per day,’ DJ StrangeLove had said.

And, in spite of myself, I’d done just that.

Perhaps it was my success, or perhaps it was the effect of the two cigarettes I’d smoked the night before (in a desperate attempt for conversation-time with a girl way out of my league), but I was dizzy with it.

Dizzy, and slightly confused.

“Why am I doing this, again?” I asked DJ StrangeLove over the phone that night.

“Because you’re a strong, confident man. And strong, confident men touch others. They’re comfortable in people’s personal space.”

“But I’m not comfortable,” I insisted, “that’s the problem.”

He laughed.

“You don’t have to be. The purpose of this isn’t to make you comfortable or confident. It’s to figure out what comfortable and confident look like, and learn to do it. How does Confident stand? Sit? Move? You want to make it to 23 women? Then, learning those behaviours is your objective.”

“But I don’t want to make it to 23 women,” I insisted, “I never even said that. I’m not doing this just to have a bunch of random hookups. I’m doing this so that I don’t feel like having a heart-attack every time a woman talks to me.”

“Uh huh,” he snorted, “well, you won’t even make it to one if you can’t touch somebody. Do you want to be able to kiss a girl?”

“Of course I do.”

“A kiss doesn’t happen in a vaccuum. The road to that first kiss begins with touch. If she isn’t comfortable with having you in her space, or having your hands on her body, then you’ll never even get the chance to kiss her. You’ll wait until the very last minute, try to force it just after you’ve walked her home, and, at best, you’ll get a peck on the cheek as she vanishes through the door, never calls you again, and bitches to her friends the next day about how you seemed nice, but there was no chemistry.”

My cheeks burned. It was as though DJ StrangeLove had managed to distill my entire dating life down to one sentence.

“It starts simply: high-fives, pats on the back, touches on the forearm to show your emphasis of some stupid point. Then, it progresses. A playful shove. A brush of the hair. All the way to the end of the line. But, before you do any of that, you have to be comfortable with touch. And, in order to be comfortable touching women, you have to be comfortable touching everybody.”

As much as I hated to admit it, he did have a reasonable point.

This person, about whom I knew virtually nothing, this person who had one of the most unfortunate psuedonyms since Englebert Humperdinck, this person who seemed so utterly bereft of even the most basic morality, actually had, to my surprise, some genuine insight into the workings of human beings.

“I hate it when you’re right,” I spat.

“Interactions between people fall into two categories,” he continued, “communicating information, and communicating status. There’s no better display of status than touching another person. A touch can make a man want to kill you, or a woman want to sleep with you. They’re powerful things.”

I gulped.

“That seems like a lot of pressure.”

“Well, for now, let’s keep it basic. The most powerful weapon in your touch arsenal is the Knuckle Pound. So, start with that.”

I tensed.

“I hate the Knuckle Pound.”

Even ‘hate’ wasn’t a strong enough word. As far as I was concerned, the Knuckle Pound was the instrument of the devil, used exclusively at Frat Parties and Football Games by the kind of mouth-breathers who used to shove me into lockers back in high-school.

“Learn to love it,” DJ StrangeLove replied, “it’s the most casual form of contact you can have with a person you don’t know. If you want a guaranteed way to connect with a girl, the Knuckle Pound is it.”

“I’m not doing it,” I repeated.

“Well, you’ll figure something out,” he replied, “after all, you’re a strong, confident man.”
Then, he hung up.

The next day, I had all five by 1pm.

I high-fived Craig over another Flames trade.

I nudged Keith in the leg over a joke during the afternoon staff-meeting.

I hugged Arash from Development, because his job is impossibly hard, and all I ever do is make it harder for him.

When I went to bed that night, I did so feeling powerful and accomplished.

However, the following day was a different story.

By 1pm, I hadn’t touched a soul.

I hadn’t even touched myself, which, given the colossal lack of action I’d been recieving for, oh, about the last lifetime, was actually a fairly impressive feat.

I couldn’t even get my now-customary high-five from Craig.

“Sweet trade today, eh?” I exclaimed, holding out my hand.

He looked bewildered, and wandered off. This was totally understandable, considering the Flames hadn’t actually MADE a trade that day.

By the end of work, my total still sat squarely at zero. What had started off so easy had suddenly become monumentally difficult.

I headed to the grocery store that evening, not demoralized, but determined. There were 600,000 people in this city. Surely, I could get one of them to touch me.

I was a strong, confident man, goddammit.

As I approached the counter, the Checkout Girl caught my eye. She was a tall brunette with a milky complexion, and a name tag, placed perhaps a little too high on her vest, which read: “COLLEEN”. I attempted to make conversation with her as she rang my groceries through, but her answers were clipped and automatic, responses borne of having been asked the same four questions hundreds of times in the past eight hours.

“Have a good night,” I said weakly, as I collected my change.

She attempted a smile.

And I realized I was out of time.

This was it.

My last chance.

If I didn’t use this opportunity, I would have failed, utterly.

If you want a guaranteed way to connect with a girl, DJ StrangeLove had said, the Knuckle Pound is it.

There was a pause.

And, in the pause, I sweated mightily.

Then, grimacing, I reached my fist over the counter, and, with considerable agony and self-loathing, said:

“Pound it.”

Suddenly, her entire demeanour changed. She grinned widely, and pounded my knuckles with such force that they stung for an hour afterward. She followed it with some kind of explosion sound effect, and, as I walked toward the exit, watched me leave, looking very pleased with both of us.

Walking home, I tried to hide my grimace.

I hated it when he was right.

That night, I had an email in my inbox from DJ StrangeLove.

“Remember what I said about the clothes?” it read, “I wasn’t kidding. Set some money aside. And most of Saturday. We’re going shopping.”