Squatting on a rug on the floor, directly opposite and just a couple of feet away from Karin Whittaker, a relative stranger, I began to question what I’d gotten myself into.
After Whittaker had graciously agreed to set up an impromptu, truncated 15-minute Cuddle Party workshop in the Richmond News’ office I was now within seconds of hugging fairly tightly a woman I’d only met for the first time in person half an hour earlier.
As a journalist of more than 17 years, I’ve won stare-downs with armed Serbian soldiers in Kosovo (admittingly I was in NATO Challenger II tank) and I’ve shrugged my shoulders after being followed home by former Northern Irish terrorists who I’d been writing about.
But this time, I was nervous — I didn’t know why — and I was genuinely taken aback at how apprehensive I was.
After all, Whittaker, a certified Cuddle Party facilitator, had explained clearly in her getting-to-know-each-other, setting-the-ground-rules workshop — usually an hour or so long and precedes every one of the official cuddle parties in her Richmond apartment — that I could say “no” to any of her cuddle or (non-sexual) touch requests.
Hell, we’d even practiced saying “no” with some playacting during our little Cuddle Party “warm-up.”
I must have been good at disguising my discomfort because Whittaker said she felt a “good vibe” about how things were going thus far.
I guess, if I was that uncomfortable, I really should have refused her polite advances as we moved into what’s known at the real event as “freestyle cuddle time.”
However, I was sure I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow as Whittaker asked if she could stroke my arm.
In the interests of experiencing first-hand what happens at a Cuddle Party, however, and in the spirit of my journalistic duty, I said, “yes, you can.”
As a smiley Whittaker reached over an gently stroked my arm, I thought to myself, “OK, that wasn’t that bad, was it?”
I had mentioned during the workshop that I was happier to be asked than be the initiator of physical contact and within a couple of minutes, Whittaker had moved onto proposing we hug it out right there on the rug.
Feeling I’d come this far and I might as well keep going now, I, again, said, “yes” to her amiable request.
Suffice to say, I felt very strange, not least because it’s a common complaint in my household that I have an issue even hugging family members.
And by the time we’d moved onto a “sitting huggle” — hugging while side-by-side facing opposite directions — me getting a shoulder rub and then Whittaker wrapping her legs around my waist from behind, I found myself clock-watching and keen for this particular train to reach its final destination.
Granted, this cropped Cuddle Party had been hastily arranged in the News’ brightly-lit boardroom, with a photographer popping in and out — not the most conducive for social interaction.
And unlike most Cuddle Parties, there was no soft lighting or background music and only Whittaker and myself were in the room for the most part — your average Cuddle Party would have 10 to 20 people.
Even allowing for those mitigating factors, I still cannot wrap my head around why people would go to a Cuddle Party and snuggle into intimate positions with relative strangers.
The experience, at the very least, sparked an enlightening discussion between my wife and I about my apparent reluctance to cuddle/hug/snuggle, something I wasn’t that aware of before, as it happens.
As Whittaker candidly admits, however, her parties are not for everyone.
And as much as I wouldn’t put anyone off going to one, they’re certainly not for me.
Perhaps that says more about me and my limitations than it does about Cuddle Parties.
