The Inaugural Boston Cuddle Party: A "Daily Allowance of Welcomed Touch"

(Except for the organizers, names and identifying details have been changed.)

"I saw that you signed up for the newsletter, and was just wondering if MIT is a cuddly place...?" asked REiD, the Head Cuddle Monster.

I didn't know how to begin to answer.

After a long minute, I wrote back, "Decidedly not."

The first-ever Boston Cuddle Party was held on a rainy Saturday night in April. I took the commuter rail out to Newton, and slogged through the cold rain for blocks, trying to find the appointed house. When I finally spotted it - a large, welcoming home with a wraparound porch - I felt like I'd found the Castle Anthrax.

But no white-clad virgins greeted me at the door. Actually, since I had read about Cuddle Parties in Nerve, an online twenty-something sex magazine, I expected the guests to be crunchy college grads with nose piercings and hemp messenger bags. Instead, in the annex, I found myself nervously exchanging smiles with several middle-aged men in undershirts and sweatpants.

Cuddle Parties began in New York City, the brainchild of Brown alum REiD Mihalko, a "sex & romance coach," healer, masseuse, and actor. (This Renaissance man is penning a book about cunnilingus entitled "Everything I Need To Know in Life, I Learned From Eating Pie.") They have an active electronic and media network anchored at cuddleparty.com. Cuddle parties have since spread to Los Angeles, Austin, San Francisco and a dozen other cities, with ever more locals clamoring to train as moderators. In addition to the suite of alterna-news reviews, they've been covered in Time Out New York, the Boston Globe and the London Sunday Times.

After my name was taken and my donation accepted (on a sliding scale of $20-$35), I was shown to a private room where I could change into party clothes, that is, pajamas. It felt heavenly to peel off wet denim layers and climb into modest fleece pants and a waffle-knit shirt. I sat down at the grand piano to make a nametag, writing MONICA in spiky blue letters.

The designated cuddle room was square, cozy and tiny, with petal-pink walls. Blankets and pillows were piled on the floor. I felt like I was sitting on a souffl?. Within easy reach were bowls of grapes, almonds, cheese, crackers, apple juice, Hershey kisses, Hawaiian punch...and, ominously, Altoids.

We assembled there, backs pasted to the walls, avoiding each other's eyes. On one side of me was a kind, mild-mannered doctor; on the other side was a swarthy man with a shiny black pompadour. We numbered about twenty, half female and half male, one transsexual, mostly white, ranging in age from twenty-three (me) to ninety (a lifelong sexual health activist). In the Opening Circle, we were warned to respect each other's privacy; here there were doctors, lawyers, businesspeople and secretaries who didn't necessarily want their attendance known. My fellow guests voted as to whether or not I - a journalist - could stay. After agreeing not to record guests' names, I was welcomed.

Suzann, a longtime yoga instructor and Cuddle-Lifeguard-in-training, sat comfortably splayed on a cushion and explained The Rules. Ani, a graceful woman with a cap of white hair, and Simeon, a huge ineffable teddy bear with long dreadlocks, were her backups. They were Cuddle Caddies, there to participate and also enforce The Rules.

The Rules are as follows. Safe space is supreme. Drugs and alcohol are strictly forbidden. Always ask permission to do anything. Kissing and nuzzling are allowed; dry humping is not. Erections happen; they are just "Mother Nature's way of giving us the thumbs-up sign." You do not need to do anything about them, nor feel embarrassed about them. If sexual energy in the room gets too high, you are assigned a Cuddle Buddy (think pool buddies) who will grab your hand and raise it at the blow of a whistle. You don't have to cuddle anyone if you don't want to. A "cool-down room" is available next door. If you are in a relationship, be sure to set your boundaries as you see fit. No means no. Silence also means no. If you feel the slightest ambivalence, say no. In this space, you are only responsible for your own feelings; we're all adults here.

To drive the point home, we all practiced saying "no" to each other for ten minutes. My practice conversation with the swarthy man next to me went like this:

"I would like you to please run your hands through my hair."
"No."
"Oh, c'mon. It's really soft!"
"No..."
"Touch it. Here, just feel it for a second."
"No!"
"I really want you to. Please? I will do something for you in return."
"No-o-o-o-o-o..."

We dissolved into hysterical giggles as the stakes got more and more absurd. To further break the ice, we were commanded to hug six people in sixty seconds, always asking and granting permission first. It felt silly and crazy, but this was exactly the point - to create a space with childlike energy. After receiving permission, I gently wrapped my arms around a tiny ninety-year-old woman, who felt so fragile I feared she would snap. She sighed sweetly, hugging me back.

After the icebreakers, Suzann announced that the Cuddle Party had begun. We all regarded each other with deer-in-headlight apprehension, until someone suggested we form a massage conga line. The idea was well received. We sat amid the blankets like a queue of nesting hens. The man behind me, a bald, paunchy man in a white undershirt, had a surprisingly gentle touch that gave me shivers. I was working on a woman in her 40s, who had lotion-soft, sun-browned shoulders. She was a boisterous, self-described JAP (Jewish American Princess), and wanted to open her own "equestrian therapy spa" in Oregon.

Everyone chatted and exchange stories. It was like a cocktail party, except that instead of standing around in Manolo heels and drinking martinis, we were sitting around in our jammies and drinking apple juice. Outside it was cold, dark and raining; inside we were warm, soft and safe. Quincy Jones warbled from the tape player in the corner.

Eventually we partnered off like mercury drops, spinning into our own little worlds. The swarthy man and an older silver-haired lady seemed to achieve instant nirvana in each other's arms, drawing fingers along each other's limbs with expressions of bliss like those of an instructional sex video couple. Simeon and a pair of devotees curled up by themselves, staying together all night in an exclusive cuddle-coterie. The blonde transsexual settled next to the ninety-year-old feminist, attending to her in a way I can only call loving.

I made a beeline for Jesse, a dark, bearded man built like Zeus who worked for a real estate insurance company. While I was lying between his legs like in a two-person luge team, Mother Nature did indeed give him the thumbs up. It wasn't a big deal - we both ignored it - though I did allow myself a self-satisfied smirk.

Jesse had enormous arms and a soft tummy. As he spooned me and nuzzled the back of my neck, I talked to Rob, the doctor. He was in his mid-40s with a narrow, red face and world-weary smile. He told me a sad story about his ex-wife, with whom he'd had an unhappy marriage of twenty years. On their honeymoon to Argentina, his new bride would not set foot outside the hotel - she feared the "dirtiness" of foreign countries. He spent his honeymoon walking the streets of Buenos Aires by himself. Finally he made a dinner reservation for them both at a restaurant two blocks away. She made it to the corner, he said, and then froze at a stoplight. He couldn't make her go any further. Because the restaurant had his credit card number, he then had to pay for the meal anyway.

Clearly, he needed cuddling. He asked to join us and I granted permission. But then we began to forget asking permission. I was as guilty of this as they were. The Rules began to break down as the atmosphere of warmth, acceptance and permissivity prevailed. As I lay there sandwiched between Rob and Jesse, two fortysomething unmarried men, I thought, "Hmmm, how do I feel about this?"

I did feel safe and comfortable, true. But it was also true that I, the only young woman, could not possibly experience the situation objectively. Being the bubbly ingenue, I couldn't escape feeling I was some symbol of youthful innocence upon which middle-aged men projected. And our physical, warm, human closeness itself seemed to engender an aura of trust that I did not want to violate, even if I felt uncomfortable.

I tried to quash my uneasiness: if I was enjoying myself, I was enjoying myself and that was that.

An old school Michael Jackson album ran out and Suzann put on the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. We crooned along to "(Now I've Had) The Time of My Life" in gleeful self-mockery. Someone suggested singing "Kumbaaya," but quickly recanted after seeing our panicked faces.

The party ended with a gigantic "puppy pile." Well-apportioned people were called upon to make up the bottom layer. I volunteered (because at least my ass is well-apportioned). More layers piled on, always perpendicular, like human Lincoln Logs. On the bottom layer we got smushed laterally like pancakes. It felt unbelievably good, like getting a shiatsu massage. We were all fey and frolicsome, cracking jokes, squealing and giggling like kids. There was also much apologizing for stepping on asses, feet in others' faces, breathing on necks and whatnot. But I just felt blissful.

At last, Simeon stood up and asked permission to sing for us. Besides being a Cuddle Caddy, Simeon turned out to be a talented recording artist. In a robust, colorful voice, he led us in a sing-along of John Lennon's "Imagine," which, any other time, would have made me try to hide under my shirt.

I left feeling supremely relaxed, like I was leaving a spa. But the experience brought up issues for me that resonated for weeks afterwards. At the party, there was a constant tension between playful childlikeness and responsible adulthood. Even though The Rules are perfect, people are not. Inevitably, we brought a little bit of society into the room with us. Though Cuddle Parties are designed to circumvent destructive human tendencies, I felt faint undercurrents of possessiveness, jealousy, guilt, coercion, aggression and passivity. Did Simeon's cuddlers try to sequester him for themselves? Did the silver-haired lady, who looked dazed and detached after the party's end, feel pressured into monogamous cuddling? Was I truly willing in everything I granted permission for?

Even despite these questions, for me, the atmosphere of warmth and euphoria prevailed. A month later, I think back on the experience as if recalling a dream. We didn't smoke any weed, down any Ecstasy, or drink any alcohol. So what was it that enabled us perfect strangers to tear down our defenses and open up to each other? Maybe human touch is its own drug. If so, it's there for the taking. Cuddle Parties, spreading across the world with a seemingly unstoppable momentum, are opening at a house near you.