Alkan, the facilitator of the party I attended, has been hosting these non-sexual cuddle parties for three years now. He's the only San Francisco party facilitator for the Cuddle Party organization and the events can be difficult to get into, Alkan told me on a video call days after the cuddle party. They typically sell out a month in advance due to popularity, but space and San Francisco's high rent costs are also two big factors.
"When people charge you the amount of money that you are about to make from the event, it makes it very difficult to find a venue," Alkan later told me.
I booked mine a month and a half beforehand. I showed up donned in loungewear to the secret "Cuddle Castle" 10 minutes before showtime, sober (attendees are told to not consume alcohol beforehand), and I was the first one there. Alkan gave me a warm greeting and instructed me where to put my shoes. The restroom was down the hall, and there's the guacamole, with the name tags beside it, he said. We'll begin as soon as everyone shows up.
And show up people eventually did. About 20 to 30 of us were crammed into the warm, lit space. There were blankets sprawled everywhere, with pillows in every crevice of the room. Inflatable beds and couches were placed among the more typical-looking living room furniture.
We lounged around the room, with tags stuck to the front of our shirts indicating our names and our pronouns. Mine read "Katie, she/her." There was a tangible tentativeness in the room — some were repeat party goers, already cuddling as we waited for Alkan to take the stage. Others, like me, had no idea what they were getting themselves into.
I immediately fired up a conversation of pleasant small talk with the attendee who I would later cuddle with. This was her first time, she said. She was curious about what it was like. Another woman, a free spirit with flowing tendrils of dirty blonde hair, had met a friend at a separate mindfulness-related event who suggested she try a cuddle party. She was clearly in her element.
Later, after Alkan introduced himself and announced that a full refund would be given to anyone who decided in the next couple of hours that this wasn't their cup of tea, we began taking turns going around introducing ourselves and saying why we were there. Some participants were part-time professional cuddlers, booking one-on-one sessions with clients on top of their "day job." Some were what they called "bodyworkers," some held IT jobs, some were mindfulness therapists, and some were from out of town.
And everyone had their own reason for being there. Some were lonely, some wanted to learn more about consent ("a muscle," Alkan said, that can never be too strong), and some just wanted touch. One woman said she liked cuddle parties because they could recharge your batteries. Others said they usually got their cuddling fix from casual dates they matched with on dating apps, but they wanted to try the cuddling aspect without the disappointing sex that usually preceded it.
One young woman, who I later decided was quite possibly the bravest of the bunch, tearfully explained that she had recently gotten out of a serious relationship and was adapting to the crushing new lack of human contact in her life. She was there to take the edge off.
The first portion of the four-hour event was very much like a workshop, with breakout group sessions and the like. First, Alkan launched into explaining the 11 rules of the cuddle party. Rule No. 1: pajamas stay on. Alkan made it very clear that being attracted to or aroused by other attendees was normal and not something to be ashamed of. "It's how our bodies work," he said. But he did stress that this was a non-sexual event and to remember that. Even in the disclaimer at the time that I bought the online ticket, it was spelled out that if sex was desired, people should leave the premises after the fact if they wish to engage.
"We all have a hard time asking for what we want," Alkan said.
Other rules were that "yes" and "no" should be heartily exercised when you're discussing with a fellow cuddler what you want. Do you want them to put their hand on your shoulder? And more specifically, do you want them to massage it or squeeze it? He and his assistant demonstrated how to properly ask someone to touch them: Ask, and then wait for an answer before reaching your hand toward the intended spot on your fellow cuddler's person.
Another rule was that changing your mind is encouraged. If you say yes to something but decide halfway through that you don't like it after all, voice that to your cuddle partners.
Perhaps the one I found most interesting was that as important as it was to say no to what you didn't want, Alkan stressed that it was just as critical a focus to practice saying yes to — and also asking for — what you did want. As humans, we've evolved into an independent-minded society, one where seeming needy is feared. "We all have a hard time asking for what we want," Alkan later told me, whether that's touch or asking for a raise at work.
Then came the exercises. One was grouping into threes and practicing saying yes or no, regardless of what the question was. For example, two of us aimed rapid-fire made-up questions, like "Will you go to the zoo with me?" or "Will you cut my hair?" at the third person, and that person had to practice saying no to every question. Then we'd switch.
The idea was to familiarize yourself with the concept of saying no to something, even if the question was ludicrous and out-of-place, so that you could more easily and firmly answer "no" truthfully in the future to something you don't want to do.
Part of these exercises was also to practice being rejected. "We're adults, we can take care of ourselves," Alkan said in regard to handling rejection. He later told me that as a cisgender, heterosexual, white man, that's one of the biggest lessons he's wanted to teach through the gatherings that he facilitates: that it is possible to possess a type of masculinity that isn't diminished by vulnerability or the grace with which to handle a rejection, though of course, that skill can apply to everyone regardless of gender.
Once the rules were spelled out and the workshop was complete, we jumped into the first step of cuddling: We hugged.
Alkan instructed us to stand and walk around the room, asking one another for a hug before embracing for as long as we'd like. I couldn't remember the last time I stood with my arms wrapped around someone and vice versa for more than 20 seconds. You could feel how equally foreign and pleasant it was, a bunch of strangers in a room hugging while the rest of the world went about its business.
I eventually grouped up with two others and we started out slow and simple — sitting in a row against the wall atop pillows, all holding hands with our legs stretched out and crossed in front of us, chatting. We transitioned into laying down, with the male in our group on his back and us two women draped over either side of him.