As I reclined into the depths of my bathtub, the massage of Jacuzzi jets gently pummeling my body, I thought about how satisfying it felt to be touched by something other than my own hands. With my head partially submerged beneath the water, through the hum of the Jacuzzi, I could hear the escalated thump of my heartbeat -- while the grimy ring of neglect wrapped around the walls of the tub, offering another dirty reminder: there’d been no overnight guests for a long while; only me.
While soaking -- counting the cluster of dark hairs overtaking my big toe -- I recalled something I’d heard once on a date. It was an honest declaration, so touching in fact, that it stayed with me -- repeatedly pulling me back into the sentiment: “Sometimes, I go home with people, even if I don’t really want to have sex,” declared S (my date) between sips of wine. “Just so I can have some human contact....just to be touched!”
Although I’d not done the same, I had to admit that the desire for the touch of another, more times than not, took priority over sex. Holding hands, watching a movie wrapped in each other’s arms and those sweet kisses: the clothes-still-on kind; the precious kind that holds a relationship together -- when hungry fornication fades.
As the water jets continued to knead my body, I thought about my existing solitary situation as well the men who’d touched my past -- one ex-boyfriend in particular who, I (eventually) came to discover, had a scary history behind his sweet facade. Let’s just say, he was my Mr. Ripley. To this day, friends still make statements like, “I don’t know what you ever saw in him!” My reply is, and has always been, simple and sweet: “Because he always used to hold my hand.” That answer escapes most, but to me, his handholding, the tenderness of the gesture, always put a calm reassurance into our relationship -- until (unfortunately) the rest came out.
Another week passed. My body remained untouched.
My thoughts did not.
And then, it happened again while at dinner with a
friend and a gaggle of relative strangers (all gay men). While poking at my orange chicken, quietly listening to gossipy banter regarding a myriad of recent trysts, the humpy man beside me blurted out, “Yeah, when I was younger -- in my twenties -- I used to be kind of a cuddle slut!”
A cuddle slut?” I asked, putting down my chopsticks.
“Ya’ know, just the hugging, kissing and sleeping together part -- without having sex!”
Grabbing for more, I asked, “Does anyone else just, um, go for the hugging and not the humping?”
There was a moment of dim-sum induced silence.“Sounds like a cock-tease to me!” one announced.
“I guess it’s ok” another, chimed in after thoughtful consideration. “As long as the intent not to have sex is
revealed, before you go home with them!”
“I donno know,” declared another, “I guess I’m more
like that now -- than when I was in my twenties.” The table of (mostly middle-aged) homos nodded in agreement, between bites of Chinese food.
A few more days pass, and I’m recounting the cuddle conversation to a co-worker. (We’ll call her K.) “It seems like people, even the Mos’, are getting really touchy!” I announce between nibbles of my breakfast burrito.
She stares back quizzically like a cat that’s humouring you until you open the can of food.
“Ya know” I continue, “Like, I donno know, people are beginning to admit that it’s not just about getting laid.”
K takes a sip of her Starbucks latte, then begins pecking at the keyboard of her computer, “Well then you better check this out!”
A few seconds later, in bold purple and yellow Brady Bunch-like lettering the words CUDDLE PARTY illuminates her screen -- framed by groups of smiling people fading in and out of various hugging poses -- like an animated yearbook filled with really enthusiastic students. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Apparently they’re all the rage,” K announces. “Somebody was talking about it in my yoga class.”
Later that night I curled up with my computer and the Cuddle Party website. In a nutshell, a cuddle party is: An event designed with the intention of allowing people to experience non-sexual, group physical intimacy through cuddling.I’ll spare you the rest-TMI. (See below for
website 411.)
After reading, I tried to get a grip. Admittedly --
and I know this sounds corny -- it did touch on this consideration: Had I become so consumed with cooking up sumptuous sexual entrees, that I’d all but shifted sweet to the side? Had holding been overlooked by the prospect(s) of humping?
I thought about Ripley and his handholding. I thought about the fact that when (visually) assessing someone, I rarely think God I’d love to hold his hand or boy I wish he’d hug me. Was I out of touch with touching? Myself? No! (Translation: I’m a master at masturbation.) As for others? Guilty as charged! So I made a deal with myself. Going forward, I would reach out and get more “in touch.”
I am an east-coaster, bred from New England roots, from military and religious roots. We are not a touchy lot. Reaching out, being touchy-feely did not come easily.
So I started small. When at restaurants, I took to placing my hand on the waiter’s arm while ordering. At first ,this felt as if I were a baby approaching a stove: like I might scorch my hand on a flame. I was about as natural as a vampire being served garlic chicken. (Side note: this does NOT work in fancy or really gay restaurants.)
When I saw my friends I began to routinely hug them -- which they found extremely uncharacteristic (translation: annoying), and I even began holding the door for people -- cute and otherwise.The outcome was no-holds-barred remarkable.
Until the whole hugging, cuddling thing appeared, I hadn’t really given it much thought. I’d only been paying attention to the obvious things thrust in my face -- things that I’d been conditioned to look for -- things like a cute butt and dimples.
And there it was, the hand that I’d wished to hold just kept slapping me with examples of my oblivious par ticipation.
While I doubt that I’ll ever host a Cuddle Party and my friends have grown extremely weary of my affectionate posturing -- after all the mental and physical holding, I’ve come to embrace this: If you’re looking for a handout, no one will give you money, old sandwiches, apple wine, a cigarette or anything you deem valuable, unless you hold out the appropriate sign!
So I leave you with this, in the wistful words of Miss Diana Ross:
“Touch me in the morning...
...then just walk away...
we don’t have tomorrow...
...but we had yesterday (but yesterdays gone my love, there’s only now and it’s time to face it) Touch me in the morning...”
To learn more about Cuddle Parties go to: cuddleparty.com
For additional archives of
previously published columns visit www.frontiersweb.com and www.outlooks.ca