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I hate holding hands, and I always have. Don't look so disappointed--you already knew I'd make a lousy boyfriend.

We've just met at a bar and now we're heading back to your place, and you want to hold my hand? Are you nuts. I'd rather stroll along with my hand in your back pocket, trailer-trash style.

(Or reach down the front of your jeans, to oil the machinery of locomotion.)

Walking arm-in-arm is so much more relaxing. I would be happy to walk arm-in-arm with any woman I moderately like.

But whenever I see a couple heading up the street holding hands, one word pops into my mind: pathology.