They say men behave as children do when they are incapacitated in the slightest way. Something about wanting chicken soup, warm milk, and their mamas—whimpering like it’s the end of the world.
What I say is I don’t know about all that.
But, like any furry animal, I do think it’s nice to receive a belly and chest rub, and not just from any ol’ hand who happens by, but from a trusted hand, one whose fingers have learned the ins and outs of every rib, the approximate sensitivity of the areolae, and just where the whorls uncomfortably alter the direction of the grain. The treatment is as effective as the over-the-counter cure in a bottle.