Page 88 of Untouchable

"What?" Parker says.

"I forgot that three shots in a row is the cheat code to access Emotional Harp," he says, frowning and only half-joking.

“Well, I think I prefer that to the Axe-Wielding Harp I met on my first day,” Parker says, but his mind is stuck on Harp’s previous comment. He glances aside, rubbing his forearm with his hand. “And, for what it’s worth, you’re paying me to do massage therapy. It’s—it’s not like this with everyone.”

He clears his throat. Way to reveal your hand again, Parker, he thinks. And only half an hour after Harp had very gently—but very clearly—rebuffed him.

“What I mean is—I’m polite with all my clients, because that’s my job, but I don’t necessarily connect with all of them,” he says, not quite meeting Harp’s gaze. “And there’s not many of them I’d ever want to be snowed in with.”

He hopes Harp won’t be creeped out by this admission. They are friends, after all, and surely saying this much won’t cross a boundary in that regard.

* * *

"Oh,God, shit, Parker, that wasn't what I meant," Harp says. He's a tumble of emotions because he's not only just put his foot in his mouth, he's just listened to Parker say that he connects with Harp.

Parker starts to dismiss him, to tell him that it's okay, but Harp is feeling the whiskey now and the biggest, dumbest part of himself has decided to barrel forward without permission from the part of him that's ruled by logic and good taste.

That’s the danger of drinking: he’s always saying shit he doesn’t really mean.

But he's been on too many ups and downs tonight between the coyote and Parker and his own fuckedupedness. The only thing that's sure to keep him on an even keel at this point is a generous application of his favorite self medication. He knows he’ll be on damage control all night, probably, but at least he’s not clamming up.

"I guess I just meant that nobody ever touches me unless they have some excuse to that involves me paying them. And it's nice to be touched because someone wanted to, or I guess because I had something to offer someone. Does that make sense?"

* * *

Parker knowshis face is beet red right now, and he’s grateful that the alcohol is already working its way through his system, subduing everything—because what Harp is saying right now is a lot to take in.

Time and time again, Harp has made comments like this, comments that provide a little slice of perspective into his life. And though Parker has come to understand the solitude of the mountain, it still makes him feel as though Harp is lonely—and maybe this loneliness has nothing to do with where he lives, and everything to do with having the wrong people in his life. No one should go through life, he thinks, thinking they didn’t deserve something as basic, as vital, as human touch.

And another, more vile part of Parker is eager to tell Harp that he’d love to touch him—not as a client, not as a friend, but as a lover. To lay his head on Harp’s chest as they lay in bed. To crawl into his lap and bite Harp’s lip, run his mouth along Harp’s neck. To kneel before him and nuzzle his face between Harp’s legs.

Parker shivers.

He feels pulled in four hundred different directions, and he thinks he’s going to have a heart attack if Harp keeps saying things like this, things that make him feel more deeply than he’s ever felt before.

“It does make sense,” Parker says, swallowing hard. “I—I think touch is one of the most important things in the world. Not even in a massage sense. But I think—I think it’s healing. Mentally and physically and emotionally.”

He clears his throat, trying to bring the conversation away from such a perilous place and to somewhere more philosophical, out of respect for Harp and the boundary he’d set on the ridge just a little while ago.

“Did you ever hear about that experiment they did? With the Rhesus monkeys?” Parker stammers, looking vaguely up at the ceiling. “It was like, I think, they put some babies in a wire cage, and other babies had this… sort of cloth thing designed to mimic being held by a mom monkey. And the babies that were in the wire cage—well, it—they got all fucked up. Even though all their biological needs were technically met, they… they…” Parker trails off, grimacing. The experiment had been hard to stomach when he’d learned about it. “Anyway, touch is important.”

He’s praying Harp will change the subject, because if Parker keeps talking, there’s a not-small chance he’ll say something he deeply, deeply regrets.

* * *

"I hadn't heardof that. But I believe it," Harp says, focusing on some point past Parker's face. "We didn't touch much in my family growing up and then, with my wife, we were friends before we were together. Contact with her made such a difference in my life. She was touchy—she is touchy—and she would find any excuse to touch and screw around. I don't even mean in a sex way, you know? I mean, just like how you and me can touch and be close."

As friends, is the unspoken addendum.

Parker nods and doesn’t quite meet Harp’s eyes.

“My family wasn’t super… touchy feely, either,” Parker says. He shrugs and seems to force a laugh. “Maybe that’s why I ended up doing what I do now. My ex wasn’t really… into that stuff either, unless we were—y’know. I guess Mindy’s probably the only friend I’ve had like that.”

"I see what you mean, though," Harp says. "Touch is... hm. It's honest."

He frowns. There's something almost profound at the tip of his tongue, but it's all getting muddled with the alcohol, with the tactile memory of squeezing Parker's thighs with his light weight on Harp's shoulders, with the mention of a cold ex and Blowjob Mountain.

"Touch is real. Objective. There's just something authentic about it, I guess," Harp says.

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