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2D33;4 <4 =>C The author and her buddy Skye in their matching glow-in-the-dark footie jammies.
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6a^d_ 6a^_T The â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;cuddle partyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; phenomenon leaves our writer alone in a crowd By Dani Burlison
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donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know if they have Valium at Target, but I will check,â&#x20AC;? read the text message. My friend Skye was at the store in search of a matching set of footie pajamas for us. â&#x20AC;&#x153;This is it,â&#x20AC;? I thought to myself as beads of sweat formed across my forehead. â&#x20AC;&#x153;We are actually going to a fucking cuddle party.â&#x20AC;? I first heard of cuddle parties from a friend who planned one as her divorce steadily approached finalization. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Apparently, it is a safe place to explore nonsexual touch,â&#x20AC;? she told me optimistically. I found myself both intrigued and curiously disgusted as she explained the concept: a group of strangers come together in a safe space to give and receive affection. Perhaps this could be the next step in my life as an armchair anthropologist, a practice in furthering my experience in field research and an opportunity to test my own boundaries and practice saying no.
But stepping into an environment so far out of my comfort zone that I might as well be visiting Pluto was also a little horrifying. I needed some reassurance. The information on the front page of the CuddleParty.com website is straightforward and nonthreatening. Yet I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t erase the visions in my mind of middle-aged pony-tailed dudes cruising for young, pretty, affirmation-thumping New Age women. As I poked around the internet, however, photos of past parties, revealing bare arms intertwining indistinguishably in a sea of flannel-pajama bottoms and overstuffed pillows, tapped into a deep fear inside of me. Thoughts of germs and cold, clammy hands running lightly across my back while moaning and sighing mixed with enchanted dolphin music invoked visions of what I imagined would be not unlike an unwilling visit to a coupleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tantra retreat. My blood pressure rose. I laughed nervously. I decided that I needed to go and see for myself.
Head to Toe As we drove the streets of San Francisco, Skye already sporting his completely awesome glow-inthe-dark footie pajamas, I prayed that we would be lost for so long that they would not admit our late arrival. Being one of the most grounded and open-minded of my friends, Skye was there to calm my nerves and talk me down from the extreme anxiety I was experiencing. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I bet you 20 bucks that there are silk scarves and batik sarongs on the ceiling,â&#x20AC;? I giggled to him as we arrived at our destination. We climbed the stairs and I took one last deep breath before marching up to introduce ourselves in the futon-filled room and pay the $30 per-person entrance fee. I looked up. Scarves and sarongs draped the ceiling. As I slinked down the dark hallway to change into my pajamas, a tall, lanky man dressed in a purple satin wrap-around '' THE BOHEMIAN
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