Strangers attend cuddle parties

By Libby Copeland
The Washington Post

SARAH L. VOISIN In a "puppy pile," Su Sinclair, left, and organizer Reid Mihalko, bottom, are among those sharing their personal space at a recent cuddle party. Mihalko and co-organizer Marcia Baczynski are trying to spread their concept from Manhattan to the District of Columbia.

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WASHINGTON — If Reid Mihalko is right, nearly all of us are desperate for someone, anyone, even someone we've just met, to hold us, rub our feet, stroke our hair. And because this is about healing, this someone might give us a long, soul-baring kiss. Then, our needs fulfilled, we might venture back into the real world, boasting that we'd been to a cuddle party, the grandest social experiment since the 1970s brought us primal screams and group rebirthings.

If Mihalko is wrong, then the scores of people who've been paying him for the privilege of letting strangers spoon with them are really, really weird.

But let's take the optimistic view. The cuddle party is a six-month-old trend that started in Manhattan and hit Washington recently. It is run by Mihalko and his business partner — two self-proclaimed (that is, uncredentialed) sex and romance coaches.

Everybody needs their "daily recommended allowance of touch," says Mihalko. "We live in a very touch-deprived society."

"Touch-positive" behavior

Mihalko is a strapping blond fellow with big teeth and a superhero jaw. Today he wears a Superman T-shirt stretched across his muscled chest and orange flannel pajama bottoms. He keeps invoking his favorite word, "touch." He says his mission is to encourage "touch-positive" behavior. He says things like "everybody has concerns regarding touch" and "affectionate touch doesn't need to lead to sex." He also likes the word "confronting," as in, "intimacy can be really confronting for people."

Thirteen people arrive, mostly in twos and fours, at 1 p.m. They change into pajamas and put on name tags. World music and jazz soften the mood. Mihalko asks them to gather in a "welcome circle" on blankets on the floor. He calls himself "your cuddle lifeguard" and introduces the other organizer, Marcia Baczynski, who wears thick-rimmed hipster glasses and pajama bottoms printed with a Froot Loops design.

"This is about people being able to explore touch and affection in a nonsexual way," Mihalko says. "Just because we 'grow up,' whatever that is, I don't think that we all of a sudden stop needing to be held."

"Cuddle boundaries"
 
He explains the rules: Everybody must ask permission of everyone else before doing anything. Kissing is as far as things can go. Nobody has to cuddle if he or she doesn't want to. Nobody can take off his or her clothes.

Mihalko tells people to discuss their "cuddle boundaries" and turns them loose. Within minutes, he is bundled up with three women, his legs intertwined with theirs, his expression beatific. Elsewhere, there is foot stroking and a four-person back-massage chain. An exotic dancer, Jade Patten, 25, massages the hand of a 28-year-old Web site developer named Robbe Richman.

Coby Mitchell, 34, a "varsity cuddler" from Brooklyn, N.Y., who has come to Washington for the day, is lying on the floor behind Joe Glassman, 35, of Arlington, Va. Mitchell has a leg snuggled between Glassman's legs and an arm is draped across his chest. They've known each other for an hour.

Glassman's fiancee, Su Sinclair, 26, is at the other end of the blanket, cuddling with Mihalko.

A few people on the bed are stiff and unmoving. They look around uneasily.

Cuddle language

Perhaps because of his concern that people will confuse cuddle parties with orgies, Mihalko has adopted a kind of kindergarten-teacher language. He calls those attending "cuddle monsters" and calls their praise "cuddlemonials." He signs his Cuddle Party newsletters with phrases like "Happy spooning." He says his parties create a "safe space" that allows people to be "energetically open." He has apostles who attend cuddle party after cuddle party, saying it relieves stress and social anxieties.

It costs $30 to attend a cuddle party; $20 if you take advantage of the Endless Summer Spooning Special and sign up with a friend. There are cuddle party T-shirts and mugs and teddy bears and thongs. Mihalko and Baczynski say they're planning a book and training courses.

As she collects money by the door, Baczynski says she wants to hold an HIV-positive cuddle party and a senior-citizen cuddle party. Perhaps they should hold one for college freshmen, she says, and for people with autism, and for S&M practitioners and members of Alcoholics Anonymous and for practitioners of polyamory, a modern twist on sexual swinging.

Mihalko says he caps the sexual tension by holding his parties during the day, banning alcohol and making sure no one wears lingerie. He says kissing is allowed because it's not necessarily sexual.

"When is kissing making out?" Mihalko asks. "When's kissing just nurturing? ... I can be hugging you and my hand is partially touching your breast and you can feel completely at home and safe. Or, you can be in an elevator and you can have somebody barely touching you and you can feel unsafe."

Still, there are moments when the cuddle party feels like a warm-up for something steamier. There are a few swingers at this event, though they don't wish to be publicly identified.

"Puppy pile"

Several of the D.C. cuddlers are still high on their experience. Ursula Esser, 28, of Arlington, Va., says the cuddling gave her an epiphany. She realized she has been starved for emotional intimacy. Even Patten says she might cuddle again. She feels she made several good friends, which is strange, she admits, since she doesn't know their last names.

At the end of the cuddle party, Mihalko and Baczynski initiate a "puppy pile." Everyone lies on the floor on top of one another, arms and legs intertwined. Someone's head is on someone else's buttocks, and someone else's head is about in someone else's armpit.

The music cycles around to John Lennon's "Imagine." For the moment we're all dreamers, and the world is living as one.