“Can I massage your feet?” I look up at the middle-aged woman I met less than an hour ago and give a clear yes. I’m laying on a big, flat cushion on an open living room floor, and I’m holding hands with another stranger and have my arm around a coworker who I’ve only so much as hugged before. There are almost a dozen other people I don’t know splayed out on the cushions around me, being held and touched in similar ways. I’m at my first cuddle party and I’m feeling like it might not be my last.
*
I recently worked with a woman whose schedule hadn’t overlapped with mine in a while, and as we caught up she told me she had started facilitating cuddle parties. I was really curious because I had heard of them but didn’t know they happened around here. She talked about how it’s this whole thing that you can get trained to facilitate, and how she’s helping to bring cuddle parties to the area. She invited me to the one she was facilitating the following weekend and I gave a tentative yes, thinking about how it would be fun to write about.
That afternoon, I checked out the link she sent me for the upcoming party. “Do you crave more touch in your life?” Yes. “Do you want to experience simple, platonic intimacy that can help you feel calm, happy, and connected?” Yes! I don’t experience a lot of simple, platonic intimacy these days. I’m besties with an ex of mine and the two of us cuddle sometimes, and I also sometimes do with a long-distance ex when we see each other. I’ve had platonic sleepovers with friends, but it’s been a long time since the last one. I have a really big need for touch though — it’s my top love language, right up there with the other four.
Being under-touched can make you feel a strange kind of lack. There’s a different type of longing than when you’re not getting your quality time or words of affirmation needs met, to use that same framework. It’s a more nonspecific loneliness, this vague sense of something that gets called skin hunger. There isn’t a stomach growling equivalent, some kind of sensation that signals the need. There is a similar type of emptiness though and it can manifest in more emotional and psychological ways, such as feeling stressed, anxious, tired, or angry. I was looking forward to the event as something I could write about, and the thought of doing it for the newsletter helped me push through some anxiety I had about going. The prospect of also having some touch needs met though felt motivating as well.
I pulled up to the large, suburban house and had to do another lap around the cul-de-sac to find parking. The event email said to be courteous to the neighbors, one of whom was this kid on a bike asking me why I had parked in front of his house as I walked past. I smiled and told him I was there for an event at his neighbor’s. “What’s going on?” the kid yelled, seeing a handful of other adults getting out of their cars from around the now-full street. I thought about how it must’ve looked to others on the block like their neighbors were swingers or part of a cult, or maybe just hosting a book club — any of which would’ve been cooler than the real reason we were there.
I was welcomed in by one of the facilitators and he showed me to the kitchen, where the delicious brownie smell was coming from. The pan had just come out of the oven. I said hey to the woman I work with, who was looking over her script. Several people were already there, starting to load up plates with snacks from the kitchen island. I went over and found a seat on a cushion in the living room. There wasn’t any furniture in the space, just big cushions laid out on the floor with a couple of large bean bags and some pillows scattered around.
Right away, this middle-aged man came over and complimented my tattoos as he sat down next to me. He asked what I do and when I asked back, he launched into this whole spiel about his work in a thick Boston accent and told me a lot more than I was interested in hearing about it. Then he said, “I was hoping there would be more women here — I don’t want to cuddle a man.” I took a quick look around and saw a pretty even gender split among the folks there so far. I didn’t want to have that conversation with him so I just gave a neutral Hmm. I was thinking about how the event page could not have been more clear that this was a non-sexual event. A woman around his age came over and sat down in front of us then, and he told her all the same things about his work, almost word for word. Then, “I was just telling this young lady that I thought there would be more women here tonight – I don’t want to cuddle a guy.” She said something back to him, but I didn’t catch it because the facilitators had just sat down and were asking for our attention. “Okay everyone, let’s get started.”
*
CuddleParty.com, a domain name that was not taken, is the home of Cuddle Party INC, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit founded in 2004. Its mission is to “promote and enable empowered consent, choice, and nurturing touch. We do this by training and certifying facilitators who produce Cuddle Parties and other related events.” The trainings have in-person and virtual options, and you learn how “to create safe, non-sexual space to allow connection between your participants, to lead workshops that leave your participants feeling touched, open, valued, and nurtured, and to create a powerful relatedness with strangers quickly and easily.” All this and more for $695, with payment plans available. If you’re interested, their contact page says to get in touch — the pun very much intended.
The FAQ page has answers to questions I both did and didn’t know I had: What if I get turned on? “It happens sometimes. It’s perfectly normal when we are close to people, especially if we don’t have much chance to enjoy touch that is not about sex. Our agreement is to not act on it.” What if no one wants to cuddle with me? “Everyone, including you, has a choice about who and how to share touch. At Cuddle Party we celebrate ‘no’ by recognizing the person is taking care of themselves.” Are Cuddle Parties therapy? “Cuddle Parties are not therapy. But they can be healing, comforting, restorative … insight-producing, and challenging of your preconceived ideas. They are intended for people who are basically well.” I wondered if I was basically well, and what it says about my wellness that I had decided to go.
*
The three facilitators introduced themselves and started explaining the schedule for the evening. I looked around at the circle of people I was sitting with: a mostly white group of fourteen people wearing comfortable clothing, almost all of whom had come alone. I was clearly the youngest — everyone else looked to be in their late thirties and older. To my relief, it looked like my coworker and I weren’t the only queer people there. We went around and shared our names, pronouns, and a fun fact or two, and some folks also talked about what brought them to the event: curiosity, loneliness, feeling touch-starved, working on healing their relationship to touch. I could relate to all of these reasons.
We stood and played a few rounds of gesture telephone, probably the worst icebreaker I’ve had to do in my adult life. We practiced saying nos and yeses in several scenarios afterwards to help empower us to do so in the open cuddling time. The facilitators talked to us about the importance of consent, using the FRIES model (Freely given, Reversible, Informed, Enthusiastic, Specific). We were told that “no” is a complete sentence, that “we cuddle at the intersection of two or more yeses.” They shared what platonic touch is and isn’t, and listed some types of contact we could and couldn’t engage in with each other that night. Then one of the facilitators put on some lofi beats, and it was time to cuddle.
I approached the woman I work with first and we pretty quickly decided we wanted to lay down and hold hands. I heard others negotiating touch around us. She and I talked about work and caught each other up on more that had happened since we last worked together several months ago. The same woman who came and sat near me before the event sat down next to me again, and she asked if I wanted to touch pinkies. I laughed and said yes. We did, and that progressed to holding hands then to her laying down next to me, her shoulder against mine and my hand still in hers. On my other side, my coworker snuggled up and laid her head on my chest. I apologized for being a little sweaty out of nervousness as I wrapped my arm around her. The three of us laid like that for a while, talking about our relationships to touch and agreeing we were enjoying the night so far.
A little while later, I was holding hands with someone else who was also middle-aged, and the woman whose place they had taken began to massage my feet. I don’t really like having my feet touched, but it’s something I’ve become more comfortable with since starting to go to a community acupuncture clinic regularly. Her foot massage felt better than I expected. It was quiet for a little while and I tried to tune into my body some more, noticing a feeling of safety as well as an awareness of my edges. My feet were in someone else’s hands, my shoulder was against another person’s shoulder, my chest was supporting someone’s head. At some point, the person holding my hand shared that they were looking to be a big spoon that night because they’re always the little spoon. I told them the opposite is usually the case for me, and I would happily be their little spoon.
How it felt to be held by a stranger: Surprisingly comfortable and comforting. Easy and warm. Tender. Soothing. Intimate and cozy. Uncomplicated. Queer, because we both were. We laid like that for twenty or thirty minutes — I lost track of time — talking on and off. It didn’t feel like there was pressure to keep up a conversation, and I didn’t want to anyway. I didn’t feel self-conscious or anxious or uneasy; I just felt the grounding weight of their arm over me, the reassuring warmth of their body pressed up to mine. I couldn’t remember their name, but I felt deeply connected to this person I’m not sure I’ll ever see again.
A couple of times throughout the night, one of the facilitators initiated what he regrettably called a puppy pile. Each time though, he just laid face down on the floor and someone would lay the same way next to him. Others, clearly confused about how to join in, would lay perpendicular across them. It kept happening like that, like they were creating the base of a human Jenga tower. I tried to be a part of one by asking if I could lay with my head on the back of one of the women’s legs. I didn’t stay there long — it was uncomfortable and a little awkward — but a man who walked past us said I looked very reflective.
I had arrived at quarter to seven, and it wasn’t until I was in the kitchen snacking on grapes and cashews that I checked the time and saw it was already after ten. The other woman who was leading the party was in the kitchen then too, and she asked me the usual questions about my tattoos. Yes, some of them hurt but most weren’t that bad; no, they don’t all mean something; yes, I still want more. I went to the quiet room for a few minutes, where people could go if they wanted a break from talking or touch. Then I spent the last portion of the open cuddling time on a cushion back in the living room, having a very one-directional conversation with a man who came and sat by me. I kept looking at the clock, trying to decide whether I should just leave. I noticed then that the guy who didn’t want to cuddle another man had left at some point without saying anything to the group, unlike others who had left early. I figured he realized he had the wrong idea about the event, that platonic cuddling just meant platonic cuddling.
In the closing circle, we went around again and each shared a little about how we felt during and after. Content. Happy and grateful. Anxious. Surprised. Satisfied. The facilitators told us we might experience a come down from all the endorphins the touch had given us. I left feeling tired, but a little giddy and touch-drunk too — a literal contact high.
*
I went into the cuddle party not wanting to touch or be touched by a man, and I was successful in that. I knew that I wouldn’t have to, of course, because the event page described the necessity of consent at cuddle parties and made it clear you didn’t have to touch anyone at all if you didn’t want to. I was worried I would feel some kind of pressure regardless, if the party happened to be mostly men or if anyone seemed upset at my no. Most of the men that approached me that night though took my rejection well. It’s empowering to say no to men! It feels good and we should all do it more often. “Can I hold your hand?” No thanks. “Do you want to hold me?” I’d rather not. “Can I squeeze in between you two? I don’t want that. I was talked at by several of the men there though, on topics ranging from UX design and contracting work to fan fiction and the concept of original intent. None of which I had asked about, believe it or not.
I did not feel turned on at all during the party, like the website’s FAQ addressed the possibility of. I didn’t actually think I would, but I was curious about what might come up for me. There was a sensuality in a sensory experience sense, but no eroticism or desire, at least on my end. I did have the thought several times that I wished I was at a sex party instead. Not with that particular group of mostly straight people, but just in general. I was kind of wishing I lived somewhere I’d be more likely to get a sex party invite. That’s the type of touch I’m more open to negotiating with and giving to people I’ve just met. It’s interesting that it feels more vulnerable to ask Do you want to hold hands and lay side by side than Do you want my whole hand inside you.
I had this feeling throughout the night that I wasn’t a cuddle party kind of person. I can admit to being a little judgmental of the other attendees for being people who would go to a cuddle party, unlike me, who was mostly doing it so I could write about it. At the end of the day — at the end of the party, rather — I was, of course, a woman who had gone to one, who would go to one. And maybe I will go to another one someday because the experience was the best I’d felt in weeks. I’m not a convert by any means though. I’m not here to preach the cuddle party gospel, to say you don’t know what you’re missing out on. I just went looking for a story; I wasn’t expecting that I would feel less lonely and more connected to my own body in the arms of some strangers.