The Hug Tax

When men say “Where’s my hug?”, what they mean is “How much of your body will you give to keep things polite?”

If I had a pound for every time a man asked me “Where’s my hug?”, I’d have enough to launch a feminist-run missile straight into the sun with every creepy uncle, flirty line manager, and emotionally stunted Tinder match duct-taped to it. “Where’s my hug?” isn’t a question. It’s a warning shot. A gentle-sounding eviction notice from your own body. A socially acceptable form of emotional trespassing, gift-wrapped in faux innocence and the lingering scent of Lynx Africa. No woman has ever heard those words and thought: Yes, this is the foreplay I deserve. This is the man I want inside me.

Most of the time, hugging men feels like a chore. A social obligation wrapped in fleece. It's rarely warm or wanted. Just a clumsy shoulder dig, a puff of Superdrug-scented air, and a bruise blooming quietly on your collarbone. And in bed, it gets worse. “Let’s cuddle” becomes you contorting yourself around a half-asleep man like an emotional neck pillow while he breathes heavily and radiates the energy of someone who has never held a woman or a coherent thought. You weren’t asking for Shakespeare. But maybe a little heat distribution. Maybe not being spooned like a hostage. Half the time, you just want to sleep.

Hugging, to many men, is the full extent of their emotional vocabulary. It’s their apology, their love language, their one-size-fits-none performance of intimacy. Especially in public. The dodgy uncle who lingers just a second too long. The work colleague who turns a birthday card handover into a chest press. The cursed few who add sound effects. A low, haunted “mmm” like they’ve just tasted your aura. And through it all, they think they’re being charming. That “Where’s my hug?” is flirtation, not a softcore hostage negotiation. Sir. We are in a Sainsbury’s Local. Beneath a flickering lightbulb. Next to a basket of garlic breads. Put your arms down.

At this point I want laminated warning posters in workplace kitchens. I want cigarette-style packaging on every “Where’s my hug?” moment. Graphic images of women shielding their Pret salads and praying for divine intervention. There should be Hug Offender Registers. Court-mandated proximity limits. A televised government PSA starring a traumatised HR intern whispering “he’s doing it again” as Gary from Sales approaches with arms out like an emotionally repressed scarecrow. If I had to hug every man who asked, I’d need a chiropractor and an exorcist on retainer.

It is never just a hug. It is a boundary check dressed as affection. A test of how much discomfort you’ll endure to protect a man’s ego. And when you pull away or flinch, you’re suddenly labelled cold, as if having boundaries is a structural defect. But the wall is there for a reason. Because every time we lower it, a man tries to wedge himself through the gap whispering “just a quick one” like a haunted pervert in a soft play centre. No. Not a quick one. Not a long one. Not one at all. The only full-body embrace you’re getting is from your own consequences. Cuddle that.

NOTE: This piece is not about the green flags. Not the men who hug like humans and don’t tie physical affection to emotional blackmail. Not the ones who respect space, timing, or the fact you’re mid-bite of a tomato sandwich. This is for the walking red flags. The unsolicited cuddlers, the “Where’s my hug?” brigade, the men who treat your body like a vending machine for validation. If it doesn’t apply to you, congratulations. You’re not the problem. But someone you know definitely is.