The Slippery Palm
and Other Evasive Maneuvers
“Just a few friends,” my wife assured me.
If that were true, she would have named every one of them.
Then she added, “It’ll be very casual.”
When my wife says “casual,” it has nothing to do with clothing. It means there’s going to be touching. A lot of touching.
“They’ve had us over,” she said. “We need to reciprocate. It’s not like we’re hosting a wedding.”
I flinched at the word.
“It’s just a small get-together.”
It didn’t matter. Personal space would be contraband. Physical contact the local currency.
* * *
The doorbell rang.
My wife skipped to the door and opened it to a man I had never seen before.
“Paul! I’m so glad you could make it.” She put her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss his cheek.
She stepped aside and he came for me.
“Hi. I’m Paul.” He approached with his palm forward in the universal signal for Danger: Incoming Handshake.
I don’t particularly enjoy being touched—by strangers, friends, spouses, or even most furniture. It’s unnerving to suddenly become acquainted with someone’s smells, textures, body temperature, and whatever’s currently living on them. It’s too much for an army of sensory receptors that never volunteered for the mission.
But I knew what to do with a handshake. I balled my hand into a fist and cocked my arm for a right cross. Not to hit him, but to knock away his grabby flipper with a fist bump.
Ahhh, the fist bump—a brief tap to the least emotionally expressive side of his meat mitt. I could even avoid eye contact by pretending to focus on the maneuver.
But Paul was having none of it. He turned out to be one of those pinheaded palookas who treat a handshake like a strongman competition. As he approached, I saw the telltale signs: squared shoulders, predatory grin, and fingers limbering up to set a personal best.
Fortunately, my hands generate enough sweat under even the mildest social pressure to qualify as protected wetlands. I initiated the Slippery Palm Protocol and extended a limp, clammy finger noodle.
Paul seized my hand and started crushing my fingers with the force of a petulant pit bull. Then he pumped my arm like he was pull-starting a stubborn lawnmower, revving me back and forth like the engine might catch. I was tethered to the very body part he used for gripping greasy burgers, mining boogers, and—let’s be honest here—all forms of self-pleasuring.
But his predatory paw recoiled the moment it registered the texture of a raw anchovy. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he frantically wiped his palm on his jeans to scrub away the moist trauma.
I don’t win many handshakes. But when I do, I make sure they never ask for a rematch.
I flexed my fingers and briefly believed the worst was over.
The front door burst open.
“Hi-eye!”
Sockless Bob strode into the room.
Before I could retreat behind the snack table, he came straight at me.
“Great to see you!”
His hands landed on my shoulders and he squeezed my upper arms the way shoppers test cantaloupes for ripeness. He stared into my face so intensely that my pupils attempted to retract into their orbital sockets. Apparently he believed this vise of forced intimacy was a perfectly acceptable substitute for saying, “Nice to see you.” But staring at someone from a proximity normally reserved for optometrists and dentists makes me feel like an unwilling participant in a two-way peep show—seeing too much and being seen far too deeply.
This level of eye contact demanded my strongest countermeasure: Advanced Ocular Reclassification. I began silently inventing portmanteaus for his eye color: Aquamagenta. Chestnutmeg. Hazelicious. It gave me something to focus on while his gaze bored into my soul like a retinal power drill.
Bob interpreted my concentration as profound emotional connection and spent the rest of the afternoon telling people about the immeasurable cosmic bond we share.
At least the Two-Handed Shoulder Grab does observe one sacred rule of social contact: Do not breathe directly into my nostrils.
Not even to save my life.
But that fragile boundary was shattered when Chip and Cindy swept in like a two-person drumline.
Chip spotted me immediately.
“Alan!”
I tried to sidestep toward the guacamole, but he hooked his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in. Three heavy thumps landed squarely between my shoulder blades, each one rattling my fillings and briefly interrupting my ability to swallow.
Ughh. The dreaded Triple Back Pat. It’s no coincidence that this is the same maneuver MMA fighters use to signal “Please stop touching me immediately.”
Chip released me with the satisfied look of a man who believes he has just demonstrated warmth, camaraderie, and possibly chiropractic therapy.
Cindy came for her turn.
Fortunately, engineers at the Institute for the Preservation of Personal Space (IPPS) have developed an emergency evasion technique known as the “Averted Embrace.”
As Cindy closed in, I executed a swift strategic swivel that placed us side-by-side facing the same direction. While touchpoints remained, the maneuver successfully deflected her breath and gaze. The awkward geometry of the pose prompted a quick release, and Cindy retreated with the faintly puzzled expression of someone who had just cuddled a coat rack.
I escaped, but made a critical mistake. I walked into the kitchen—the crowded watering hole where huggers congregate.
* * *
I immediately flashed back to the family reunion of 1994, when fourteen consecutive relatives hugged me in rapid succession.
By hug number seven I had lost track of where I ended and other people began.
By fourteen I couldn’t even maintain eye contact with my own eyelids.
And it didn’t end with the greetings. There were numerous “Let me comfort you” hugs in between. One moment I was venting to Aunt Martha about some idiot at work, and the next I was physically grafted to her like a human panini. Worming my way out using the Slippery Houdini maneuver, I shuffled right into my well-meaning but boundary-deficient cousin Earl.
He immediately smooshed me against a sweater that felt woven from steel wool. His armpits smelled like a dead fish had exploded inside Bigfoot’s gym sock, and his breath could have melted my screen protector.
When I finally wriggled free, I realized his beard stubble had exfoliated my left nostril down to the cartilage.
* * *
I came back to the present and shook off the trauma of that day.
Then I realized I was still standing in the kitchen.
Full of huggers.
Marcy approached immediately. Arms opening.
I deployed the Double-Hand Detour—grabbing both of her hands and pumping them enthusiastically.
“Oh! Hi!” she said, momentarily confused but gamely shaking both hands while we stood there like two politicians negotiating a treaty.
She eventually disengaged and drifted toward the cheeseboard.
Victory.
But the perimeter was collapsing.
Gary set down a bottle of wine and came toward me.
I hoisted a steaming enchilada casserole between us.
Gary leaned in to inspect the cheese instead of my torso.
The barrier held.
But as I set down the casserole, I saw Carol advancing with open arms.
This required stronger measures.
I turned slightly away and detonated the Snot Shield, launching a violent sneeze into my elbow followed by an enthusiastic sleeve wipe.
Carol froze mid-embrace.
“Oh… are you coming down with something?”
“Probably,” I said.
She retreated immediately.
But the kitchen was now crowded.
Doug approached.
Doug is a hugger who does not believe in personal space, subtlety, or stopping once momentum has begun.
As he advanced I executed the Sudden Shoe-Tie Maneuver.
“Oh—hang on,” I said, bending down to retie a shoelace that was perfectly secure.
Doug hovered for several seconds, arms slowly lowering. I kept retying until the social window for hugging expired.
He was still there.
And my back was starting to ache.
So I deployed the last line of defense: the Mime Wall.
As I stood up, I pretended to be trapped inside a box. I pressed both palms against the invisible barrier and formed the word “Sorry.”
Then I shrugged helplessly.
Doug stared at the imaginary glass for a moment then simply walked away.
The hugging subsided.
Unfortunately, that’s when Angie spotted me across the kitchen.
And smiled.
Some people shake hands. Some people hug. Angie kisses. Which involves the mouth—the exhaust pipe for a biological system designed to ferment last Saturday’s sashimi.
By the time Angie puckered up to plant a welcome peck, her alimentary canal had cooked up a corrosive cocktail of pico de gallo and nachos. Her lips were plastered with tortilla scraps, no longer effecting responsible saliva management.
My face clenched, like I was preparing for dental surgery by a jittery badger.
I held up a finger. “One moment!”
I ran down to my wife’s bathroom and crafted a synthetic cold sore. I smushed some wax on my lip, plopped a small piece of toilet paper over it, colored it with lipstick, and dabbed some eyeliner shavings on it for texture.
Satisfied that I looked aggressively contagious, I returned to the kitchen and actively sought out Angie. She spotted the cold sore, backed into the refrigerator, and instantly redirected her affection toward the nearest bystander.
A few feet away, my friend Elliot let out a quiet breath of relief.
Elliot and I share the same instinctive aversion when it comes to social contact. The difference is that I developed evasive maneuvers. Elliot developed anxiety, which unfortunately does not count as a defensive strategy.
* * *
Like the time we were quietly minding our own business at his sister Linda’s wedding reception when a woman—apparently drawn to the scent of awkwardness like a shark to chum—popped up and accosted him.
“Hi! I’m Sarah,” she announced, hand already out. “Let’s dance!”
Elliot clutched the edge of the table like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Misinterpreting his resistance as adorable social anxiety, she persisted.
“Aw, don’t be shy! There’s a fun side in there somewhere. We just have to coax it out!”
Elliot tightened his grip, his knuckles looking like they were trying to escape his hands. Circles of sweat bloomed under his arms.
But Sarah tugged on his arm, clearly believing that once she pried him from his chair, some inner hoofster would burst forth like an effete Mr. Hyde in ballet slippers.
That’s when Elliot’s brain misfired and concluded, incorrectly, that going along might be less traumatic than the spectacle currently unfolding.
He loosened his grip, trudged toward the dance floor, and began flailing with the grace of a drunken chimp on a trampoline.
His arm clipped a glass, which toppled into a centerpiece, which collapsed in a tangle of flowers and votives.
Someone shrieked.
That’s when Sarah’s brain shouted, “FIRE!” and she sprinted for the powder room, leaving Elliot flapping about with absolutely no idea how to retreat gracefully.
I strode over, took his arm, sat him down, and adopted my most serious demeanor.
“Elliot, listen to me. Whatever the circumstance, whatever the temptation, DO NOT GET TALKED INTO DANCING!”
“But she gave me no choice.”
“Watch me.” I got up and demonstrated a limp so dramatic it would make Quasimodo look the picture of grace.
“Does it always work?”
“Trust me. Anyone who sees it will suddenly remember their invisible dog has hot yoga.”
Elliot’s lesson was simple: some forms of physical contact can be neutralized with preparation. Handshakes can be deflected. Hugs can be avoided. Dancing can be repulsed with a convincing limp.
* * *
But there is one form of physical contact where evasive maneuvers are no longer an option.
Sex.
There is no Slippery Palm Protocol for that.
(Unless you’re alone.)
Look, I get it—sex feels good, and it’s technically the reason any of us exist. But for those of us on the spectrum, the uninvited sensations refuse to stay in the background.
First there are the noises. Bed springs are squeaking. She’s moaning. You’re grunting. You’re both breathing so hard it sounds like you’re trying to rearrange the furniture with your lungs.
Then there are the scents. Yes, bodies produce odors. But during sex, those odors tend to turn feral. Some people find this arousing. Others, like me, find it difficult to stay in the moment when my internal voice is asking, “Why does it smell like someone tried to Febreze a crime scene in a CrossFit bathroom?”
Did I mention the sweat? Buckets of it. Oceans of it. Tidal waves. You and your partner slide around in it like a pair of greased-up sea lions trying to assemble an IKEA dresser—with half the screws missing and an Allen wrench that vanishes exactly when you need it.
Maintaining emotional presence is nearly impossible amid all the sensory chaos. But the real challenge—at least for straight neurodivergent men—is figuring out what the hell we’re supposed to be doing. And it’s not like we can just avoid sex altogether, because even though we’re not neurotypical men, in this one aspect we’re still typical men.
It would be great if the vagina came with an instruction manual—illustrations, diagrams, maybe even a parts explosion. Honestly, I’d settle for a laminated quick-start guide. Instead, we’re left to operate a system whose rules change depending on lighting, lunar phase, and whether I noticed her haircut last Tuesday.
Now, some women claim the real problem is that men refuse to ask for directions—on the road, at the hardware store, or in the bedroom. HA! As if asking would help. The typical human tendency toward ambiguity escalates into a full-blown communication breakdown once sex is involved. And those of us on the spectrum? We don’t just struggle with vague instructions, we try to follow them literally—with uncertain results.
* * *
As an example, I once invited a woman to join me for a long weekend at a mountain retreat. To my astonishment, and tragically accurate dread, she said, “yes.” So after a candlelit dinner on our first night, we ended up in bed together: fire crackling, bedsheets tangled, and my anxiety operating at peak capacity while I tried not to ruin everything.
I told her I loved her. It seemed like a safe move that might buy me a little forgiveness for my inept fumbling.
Trying to help, she said, “Up a little.”
So I obediently reasserted my love a half-octave higher.
After a moment she shifted uncomfortably. “Down a little.”
So this time I whispered it softly.
Things continued in this vein for a while. Yet somehow—either by grace, gravity, or sheer momentum—we progressed to actual coitus. That’s when the real chaos began.
“Harder,” she said.
Lady, I thought, this is the max setting. I’m not a hydraulic press. Sure, I can tell you what day of the week March 3rd, 2037 falls on (Wednesday), and I can instantly calculate the square root of 73 (8.544)—but no amount of mental processing is going to make my one-eyed wonder weasel surpass titanium on the Mohs hardness scale.
Then she said, “Faster.”
So, I immediately finished.
Which is how we ended up lying there in silence: me wondering how someone could be disappointed by such spectacular speed, while she quietly composed a breakup haiku.
Some people emerge from affectionate contact positively glowing with the thrill of human connection.
I leave needing a long shower, a sensory deprivation tank with a padlock, and a cease-and-desist order addressed to my nervous system.