Cuddlers form what’s called the “puppy pile” or “human lasagna” as part of the finale of a Cuddle Party last week. The gatherings are billed as “boundary-appropriate” workshops for “exploring touch, affection and communication.” Since 2005, when the concept was created, 600 parties have been held in the United States and abroad.
Thursday, April 17, 2008 | 2 a.m.
Reid Mihalko, left, co-creator of the Cuddle Party, reads "Hug Time" by Patrick McDonnell to a cuddler. He flew in from New York for the party and laid down ground rules, including that guests must ask for permission before touching anyone.
Beyond the Sun
It’s a suburban party in a stucco house. The cheese is cubed, the carrots are drowning in ranch dressing and the music is elevator. The guests, strangers wearing pajamas, are sitting on a living room floor lined with blankets, drinking white wine in plastic cups and waiting to hold one another.
It’s a Cuddle Party, and it’s exactly what it sounds like. Adults getting together to cuddle. To sprawl on the floor and spoon in ratty sweats. To pile on one another like pound puppies. To satiate their “skin hunger.”
Waivers are signed.
There have been 600 formal Cuddle Parties across the United States, Canada and Europe since 2005, when the concept was created, or at least named, by two New York relationship coaches.
This is Las Vegas’ first, and it’s off to a slow start — limited eye contact, small talk, nervous laughter.
Paul, a probate attorney, has flown all the way from Minnesota. He spends his days dividing dead people’s assets, and he needs a hug. Irene and Jessica, two middle school teachers, goaded each other into showing up — and look ready to bail out together too. Jeff, the owner of an upscale Henderson bar, makes sure his sheer white robe, which matches his sheer white pants, doesn’t open too far too soon. He should have worn a T-shirt. That’s one rule.
Here’s another one: Pajamas stay on.
Tsk, tsk if you thought Cuddle Parties were about sex. They’re painstakingly platonic. They’re all about making touch A-OK, promoting intimacy in a world increasingly lived online, alone together. They’re about “a structured, safe workshop on boundaries, communication, intimacy and affection.”
About 12 adults on their hands and knees, on the floor, pretending to be cows and mooing. That’s a Cuddle Party icebreaker. The idea is that the cows come into a circle and tip themselves over, falling into a cuddle position. Anything to make it easier to start snuggling a stranger.
Just don’t spill your drinks, Cuddle Party co-creator Reid Mihalko, who traveled from New York to facilitate the party, explains. “No one wants to cuddle in a puddle.”
The joke goes over golden in a roomful of nervous adults.
The other icebreakers, and there are a few, include practicing asking guests for hugs and practicing saying no to each other. A basic exercise: Find a stranger, ask to kiss him or her. Stranger says no. No hurt feelings allowed. “No” is good. “No” is instructive. “No” heals.
“Saying no,” Mihalko says, with pregnant pauses between every word, “Changes ... people’s ... lives.”
Cuddle Party Rule No. 3: You must ask permission and receive a verbal “yes” before you touch anyone.
Cuddle Party Rule No. 4: If you’re a Yes, say “Yes.” If you’re a No, say “No.”
Cuddle Party Rule No. 5: If you’re a Maybe, say “No.”
And if someone says no, Mihalko says, well, a really nice thing to say in return is: “Thank you for taking care of yourself.”
Every once in a while, people at Cuddle Parties will just start weeping, Mihalko says. He encourages people to let the tears just come. He also encourages people to let their cuddle partners know if they have bad breath (no hurt feelings) or if they don’t want any more cuddling (no hard feelings) or if they don’t like the way they’re being cuddled (no hard feelings) or if their body betrays them and it makes you uncomfortable (no offense).
The rules and cuddle guidelines take an hour to go over — during this period, the participants decide that although they don’t mind having their photographs taken, they do mind having their names in the paper, so the names in this story are fake.
Derek is wearing a green Obama shirt. When the guests go around a circle and introduce themselves, he says he’s there on behalf of the campaign. This just slays the crowd, so he lobs out another: “Actually, don’t you wish I was Jim Gibbons? Don’t you wish he was here?”
The room is in stitches. The thought of the Republican governor snuggling someone is too much.
By 8 p.m., Derek is lying on the floor with Lauren, a yoga instructor, having his feet rubbed.
Of the approximately 8,000 people who have attended Cuddle Parties, only six or so have been asked to leave for inappropriate behavior. The largest party had more than 50 people, the oldest cuddler was 82, and everybody shows up: “bike messengers to lawyers to kick boxers.” Soldiers who served in Iraq, rape and incest survivors, corporate Americans.
Mihalko has trained more than 40 Cuddle Party facilitators. In Vegas, it’s Sam, who held the party at her house. Her walls are scrawled with Crayola affirmations: “No day but today,” “You are lovable,” “Today shall be a blessing.”
T.J., visiting from San Francisco, stretches his 6-foot frame across Susan, who says, “Your voice is reverberating through my chest. It’s the most awesome, calming feeling.”
Paul, the attorney, confesses he’s worried about his breath. Irene and Jessica, the teachers, are curled in the crooks of his arms, and assure him it’s fine. Everything is fine. Everyone has paid $25 to be here, and everyone is on the floor or on an air mattress inflated for the party.
Jeff, the bar owner, says, “Its about humanity. Soul to soul.”
At least two men RSVP for every woman who comes to a Cuddle Party. Not because they’re lecherous or looking to cuddle too closely, Mihalko says, but because they need a safe space to be affectionate without being misunderstood. Men usually are allowed to touch people only during intercourse, or in contact sports.
Women scoff, Mihalko says, but it’s true. “Intimacy is a wasteland out there. Maybe what I want is I just want to hold somebody.”
In Vegas, it’s seven women and five men. And by 10 o’clock, when the party is winding down, they are preparing for the closing activity — the “puppy pile,” sometimes called “human lasagna.”
This is also what it sounds like — three people at a time, arranging themselves like Lincoln Logs, until the pile is nine or so high, and someone on the bottom rung yells out that she can’t breathe.
The tower topples, everybody stands, gets into a circle, links arms around waists and waits for Mihalko’s instruction: Look at each other. (They do.) Thank each other. (They do.) Come to the next Cuddle Party. (May 29.)
“We came here strangers,” Mihalko says, “and now we’re just strange.”
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