A Perfect Friday Night With Dreamy Playlist Angel, Part One

Is it weird to feel all swoony making out in front of "She's dead, wrapped in plastic."? Probably!

I think Dreamy Playlist Angel sent me a ping on Feeld. He's 29, theoretically below my oft-ignored and somewhat arbitrary lower age limit (35) but the floppy-haired vulnerability of his picture and the boldness of his texts convinced me he was not to be missed. Plus, he reminded me of my dear friend/crush/friend The King of Carrot Flowers, the quintessential Cute Boy With Records. (You don't have to have records to be one, you just have to not mind when I stop the proceedings to change to a better-suited song.)

(Side note: There might be paragraphs to write about the worry and protectiveness I feel around playing with twenty-somethings. Not now though!)

He'd never seen any David Lynch stuff! So I picked the coziest possible thing, the Twin Peaks pilot. Fish in the percolator!!!

He (the boy, not the percolator fish) arrived at my door at 9pm, Friday before last. I don't usually like to do things on a Friday night, I'm more likely to be in bed playing phone games and bingeing Normal Gossip by 7:30 pm. But he gave me time for a nap, and said he didn't mind a pajamas date, so here we were.

He was prompt! He didn't stand at the entrance of my apartment complex and wait to be shown in! He just used the directions I gave him and came right to my door! Perhaps I should not be THIS excited not to go down the driveway in my pajamas, but it's the little things.

Is there anything better than opening the door and finding out your cute date is also tall!? Yes! The confidence!

I don't think I'd even closed the door behind him yet when he said "Do you mind if I kiss you?" He held my face and took me in, his first kiss both gentle and reassuring.

We made room on the couch and snuggled up, easy as if we already knew each other. Comfortable. Peaceful. And so, so hot.

The thing that sticks with me the most is kissing his wrists. I felt a sweet, devouring spark there. Pausing briefly to identify with vampires. I wanted all of him in my body, just from knowing that soft pulse. A heave in my chest and an absolute river in my pajama pants. Ohboy.

I'm a teacher. I'm always ready to teach, but he didn't need it. He treated me like my body was already his home, already lived in. I love how somebody can belong to me without belonging to me at all, mine and his own, eternal and also time just flying by.

Snuggled under the downstairs comforter, his hands found their way inside my bra and just stayed there, friendly and gentle. I felt a brief worry that we were going too fast, but my body hushed me with deep wellbeing, and got still, let myself be held. 

 

Knotty Thursday: Cute Harness with Bow

 

It is not the happiest Knotty Thursday ever--I'm recovering from a mild case of Covid (Sixth day of quarantine) and feeling blue about holiday plans getting cancelled. Plus I'm still sad I don't get to festively watch Gremlins 1 (or anything) with This Charming man! But! I watched this video last night:

I sure didn't have a long enough rope (on order!) to do the whole thing but it gave me a basis for making a cute harness on my own FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER! I'm so proud! Here's what it looks like without the bow:

I left it on all morning and into the afternoon--SUCH a comfort on a bluesy day.

Happy Friday from Sex Pajamas!

As always, wish you could see the smile that goes with!

One of the joy-sparking things in my life are the pajamas (and other lacy things!) I have just for sexytimes with myself. Just thought you might enjoy a peek.

I haven't taken very many sexy pictures since I gained a bunch of weight, but I see no reason for that to be so! I'm even flirting with the idea of booking a photo session with Fireguy, or at least getting a tripod for my iPhone...

I have a lot more to say about my warm relationship to the camera, but for now, enjoy some nipples. Happy Friday!

Gilmore Guy Part Three: Please, Please, Please

Though Gilmore Guy lives on a busy block and it was Friday night, I did show up wearing pajamas. I wore my favorite old soft pair, the ones I usually wear after the beach when I want to feel femme-y and relaxed and posh—black with purple, line-drawn lilies, stretchy but with pretty, sheer trim. Underneath, I had on a regular good black bra and one of my few pairs of undies that doesn’t go all the way up. (Confession: Though it’s hard to imagine anybody reaching around inside them, I really like wearing briefs. I wish they weren’t so stigmatized! Darn you, Bridget Jones! Although come to think of it, they really didn’t hold Bridget back, did they?)

I didn’t know which bell to ring, so I texted and he came down. I’d broken a sandal-strap on the way from the car, so I had to awkward my way up the steps. His (their) apartment was impeccably clean, with a feeling of the midcentury about it, like Mrs. Maisel’s apartment but not so fancy. The walls were painted a warm, vivid orange, which should have been hideous but was not.

Though we’d talked all about sex already, including the awkward testing talk, there was a lovely tentativeness between us—it’s nice that no matter how worldly anyone gets, the time before a first kiss is so often fizz and jangle, innocent and silly and new. It’s a wonderful, excruciating feeling, and I wonder when it will happen again.

His alcohol selection rivals my pen collection (and my Instagram feed) in terms of pure (artistic, one hopes) obsession. I handed him the mint from my garden, which I had forgotten to wash. His mojito-ing process was LONG, and he got sidetracked a few times having me taste fancy things I hadn’t had before. I noticed the sprig of pink silk-flower butterflies in a vase on the table, the same dollar store ones I use in my street art. I took it as a good sign.

His living room was warm and full of pillows, festive with street noise from the bar downstairs. The room very clearly belonged to Gilmore Lady, but could have equally housed Max Medina. I scanned the bookshelves (mostly philosophy) wondering if their book collection was merged—I mean, of course it was, right? His DJ equipment was in there too, though he said he hadn’t used it in quite a while.

We watched the Demi September 21 videos (Seriously, google it, “electrolemon September”) and then settled in for the Gilmore Girls.

“Stars Hollow looks so different,” he said, and filled me in on facts I’d forgotten about how things changed after the pilot. I was soooo happy to be starting my yearly rewatch, next to this gorgeous man, with a bespoke mojito in my hand, proud of my mint and swoony with good luck.

            Unsurprisingly for two switches, it took a little effort to figure out who would put their arms around whom. I wanted to wrap him up, take him, cocoon him protectively, but he did that for me instead.

            Probably about ten minutes into the Stars-Hollow-is-so-different pilot, I looked up into his face and it was easy. It felt natural and right, as if we had been kissing for our entire lives. His mouth was soft, yielding but also insistent. Our faces, our mouths, we fit together and the night clicked into place. Our fate, at least for the next few hours, was sealed.

A Conference with Myself, Part Two: Mr. Shiny Eyes! Cuddle Practice! Hair Pulling!

Before I float back into all the awesomeness, I should backtrack a little bit to say that Mr. Shiny Eyes was one of the guy pals I reached out to after my New Years resolution to remember how to have guy friends. In the thick of divorce grief a couple of years ago, I’d broken things off with him for no good reason, and I was superworried that I’d hurt him—and I had. I’m sad to say that I haven’t always been fully conscious of the fact that I can affect men’s feelings, and I was glad I asked him about it. We had a really nice call a few weeks before the conference, so it only took us a few minutes of being in the same building to get in kiss/cuddle/flirt mode that day. A day where I kiss three worthy men is a good one.

Also, I can’t overstate how much of a difference my extra introvert time made. It had been such a long time since I’d felt like I was on a magical adventure with my cute, slutty self—this was a reunion within a reunion.

Anyway, back to being excited/nervous/fluttery to meet up with The Professor at the Cuddle Party. I got into my PJs and nice warm socks and brought pillows and blankets downstairs to the party room. I was one of the first to arrive, so I made a little nest within the bigger nest of pillows and blankets and I stretched and breathed. The Cuddle Facilitator stamped my hand with a red heart that meant I could come and go as needed.

When The Professor showed up with The Kind Ma’am, I felt surprisingly shy for someone who’d spent the day raising my hand emphatically like a smutty Hermione in the workshops and smooching old and new pals. It was both like a first date and not a like first date at all. If all first dates involved wearing soft pants, (and like an hour of consent practice) the world would truly be a magical place.

Once The Professor was in his plaid flannel pajama pants, he sat down between me and The Kind Ma’am, his arms around both of us. They talked and I snuggled up against his shoulder, feeling the warmth that radiated from him all over. And who should sit down next to me on the other side but Mr. Shiny Eyes! Without much preamble, we started making out gleefully, and I got to feel the glow of being between two beautiful men, of being in a chain, no, a net of soft, snuggly vibes and comfy touch. The perfect mix of kissing and friendship, safety and adventure.

For technical stuff about Cuddle Parties this is a good post:  but basically the first loooooong time of the party was consent practice, practicing asking specifically for what we wanted and saying and getting nos and yesses. (Not doing the things yet, just the asking and answering.) We even had to say no to things that we really, really wanted and yes to things we hated—that way you can really feel what a no or a yes feels like in the body, the Cuddle Facilitator said, and I think it was true. I LOVE consent practice and often wish the world were more Cuddle Party-esque.

When the cuddles finally started in earnest, The Professor was occupied in a sort of two-person-seeming snuggle so I sat down on one of the chairs at the side of the room, breathed and waited to see what would happen next. I felt hesitant, but warm and hopeful. I was so pleased when The Kind Ma’am sat down next to me and asked “Can I put my arm around you?” Yes! I felt protected and friended, taken under her wing. I wondered aloud if she might be willing to pull my hair and guess what! She said yes!

Having been spinstering it for a couple of years, I hadn’t been too sure where I stood with my kinks, though I suspected they were still there. With her, it was as if no time had passed since my last adventures, like I always have been and always will be getting my hair pulled, forever and ever, amen. When she grabbed the hair near the nape of my neck, I let out a fairly un-Cuddle-Party-like groan/purr/wail. I tried really hard (and fairly unsuccessfully) not to disrupt the proceedings with my caterwauling, but no one seemed to mind.

I wound up sitting at her feet, feeling little and adored and silly. She arranged my hair into pigtails, played, pulled, and (after I asked very nicely) called me “Good girl.” Swoon. The Kind Ma’am was perfect and careful and sweet, but I got a little overwhelmed from the burgeoning energy of the room and the new/old/hurty/lovely sensations, so I thanked her and said I needed a little time. I curled up on my own for a bit, letting the relief and happiness and complicated homecoming emotions swirl around me and within me.

Next: Cuddling heartbreak a little, cuddling joy A LOT.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Seven

The night before J. was set to stay over at my place, I had one of the most optimistic shopping trips of my life. I really wanted to celebrate my slutty self and all that was joyful between us, what was beautiful in my dripping-wet desire for him. I got a matching fancy blue lace bra and underpants with delicate peach accents. Since I had a toothbrush at his house, I got him one for mine. Buying a 24-pack of condoms seemed so hopeful as to be hubristic. (I’ve since remembered that I’m happy to have them for my own use, too!) I overcame my mental block about buying lube. It felt like as soon as I made these purchases, he might disappear.

I got picnic fare for our Sunday breakfast: nice bread, cheese, chocolate, and pretty little red delicious apples. For some reason I had a twinge of fear about drinking with him, so I didn’t copy his (AWESOME) champagne-in-the-fridge move.

The morning of our date, I felt sunny and expansive. I had been squishily turned on since our picnic and was fully embracing my desire to pounce. He understood that he was to surrender his pants promptly at three. In preparation, I went down to the corner to the neighborhood co-op and got rainbow carnations for the table inside the door and little mum pots for the outside front and the terrace. All of my plants were thriving green and blooming, and the nasturtium seeds I’d bought at our garden date had grown into nice little sprouts. I cleaned and organized my girly apartment until it felt like a perfect welcome. You could certainly say I was trying to hard, but I might call it service. Or art!

I had my pink soft pajamas on over the sexy lingerie and I was full of my lovey-dovey self when he knocked on the door. I let him in, gave him a quick kiss, and asked, “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Do you have to pee?” When he said no, I pushed him up the steps to my loft bedroom, shoved him down onto my princessy bed, straddled him, pinned his arms above his head, and kissed him hard. He pulled off my top and the lacy lingerie was summarily dismissed. There was an odd moment when he said “I didn’t bring condoms, so…” but I was way to rarin’ to go and stocked up on condoms to be all WTF about it. I opened one with what I hoped looked like confidence, slipped it on him, rubbed his big, hard cock until it was more than happy, and with a relieved exhale, pushed him inside.

He was the one who made me truly love being on top. I felt so at home there, so in control and competent. He sucked and played with my nipples for the longlong time I so enjoy, and when his hands were at my waist or on my back, they felt made for me. I keep saying magical, but those hands were. As we were turning over to switch positions, I asked him to stop and hold me a minute, I felt overwhelmed. I was out of breath and dizzy from emotion and release. After we breathed together for a while, he had me lay back, held my hair, and pushed in, and I looked up into his eyes and loved him. There’s no other way to say it.

We stayed in bed a long time, listening to my makeout playlist (YAAAY for having one again, it’s been since Steampunk Guy!) cuddling, staring into each other’s eyes, and fucking some more. At one point, when he was on top with my legs wrapped around his back, he hit the spot so precisely that I blurted out “If you were me right now, you’d believe in god.” and he said “No, the name’s J___.” and I laughed for like forty five minutes. It was one of the funniest, happiest, silliest moments of my life so far, but all of the laughing had the unintended effect of killing his hard-on, so we went back to cuddling and pillow talking. We decided to consider ourselves a couple, but I was still afraid to ask about the boyfriend word even though I was tired of referring to him as “the guy.”

Eventually we got our clothes on so that we could go to dinner. I was showing him my favorite neighborhood diner, so we decided I would drive. My little car was parked in a tight spot, I bumped the car behind me, and though I laughed and said “that’s why god made bumpers” I felt really stupid. I’m normally an okay driver (not the best, as we’ve established here…) but the dizziness of the day and his razor-sharp attention to my driving made me feel lost and discombobulated.

Sweetie was the world’s worst backseat driver, in the car and in life. Her protectiveness made her chime in over and over on what wasn’t safe and what I shouldn’t do. It took years for me to convince myself that I could drive on my own and to feel competent to drive others. Now I do, I even drive my niece and nephews to the comic shop when I visit them. I want to keep steering towards autonomy, so I have an inordinate amount of baggage about backseat driving. The night might have ended differently if he’d driven, but probably not.

Dinner was fine, lemon meringue pie for and appetizer and mostly pleasant sweet nothings of conversation. We made so many plans—for me to spend weekend-after-next at his house, to go back to the art museum sometime, and the beach before it got too cold for him (instead of Sweetie) to help me pick out an external CD drive. He was planning his next mix CD for me, now that he knew me better. It felt like we were kind of a snowball picking up relationship momentum, except a few little things, like this: He had a sandwich with SO MANY onions and refused a stick of gum after, giving the rest of the night a literal bad taste. Knowing how it turned out, I’m tempted to see that as evidence that he couldn’t really empathize with my side of things, but that seems like a stretch.

Next Time: Taking too long to say goodbye.

Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles, Part Three: Aftercare and the Beatles Sing Along

After Cute Master was done beating on me to SexyBack, I decided it was time for hugs. I found a nice fuzzy blanket and asked the Cutest Boy at the Party if he would do the job. He was happy to, sat down on the couch and opened up his arms. I was still naked and I felt completely safe wrapped up with a near-stranger. Because life is awesome.

I curled up in his arms, put my head on his shoulder, and breathed him in.

“I’m just gonna stay here and sniff you,” I said.

“I don’t mind that at all.”

He ran his hands over my back and shoulders, gently through my hair. (Oops, I forgot to get it pulled! Oh well, maybe next time.) I wouldn’t have minded if he’d gotten more handsy, but this was really sweet. People kept joking about what a giver he was for being on aftercare duty with a naked girl.

He has a lovely soothing voice and whispered in my ear “You did such a good job.”

I said “Mmmmmm” and snuggled up closer to him, feeling the always-long-anticipated bliss that comes from praise.

“You’re a good girl, you know. A very good girl.”

“I just feel really lucky…”

“Well, you deserve for good things to happen to you. You’re a good person.”

Awwww. I held him long past the time when the subby feelings had gone away, but eventually it was time for him to rejoin the party. I sat on the sofa with the blanket some more, until Huge Handed Fireman, who was sitting on the couch with his gorgeous submissive draped all over him, yanked the blanket off me, all “What’s with the blanket?”

During a conversation about the enormity of his hand-size, I suggested he see if he could fit an entire one of my boobs in his hand. He could. He tweaked my nipple and informed passersby that I liked it. One stranger who’d been a particularly avid watcher of the spankings came over and asked if he could try. It was a delightfully creepy feeling holding my shoulders back and letting him touch, letting him look at me so leeringly. (After I’d made a big speech about how they’re NOT FOR HURTING, of course.

Once I’d had enough with the stranger and pushed him away gently, HHF grabbed one more time, applying a kind of pressure I’d never felt before. A pulse of desire went through me, but he went back to fondling his girl, who has particularly amazing boobs and a pinup body to go with them. I enjoyed that show for a while and then decided to put on my PJs (with people will watching it was like kind of a reverse strip tease.) and wander around the house. What I found was, would you believe it, a Beatles sing-along.

There’s a guy on the scene who I often just think of as Creepy Guy because he tends to wander into scenes, declare them a Kodak moment, then take a picture with an imaginary camera. That just seems kind of goofily hapless now that he’s taken my “Hide Your Love Away” request. One less creep in the world is a good thing.

“Eight Days a Week” was my favorite and I belted it out with the whole force of my soul. As we sang, I sat down behind Pretty Slave, braided her hair and petted her shoulders. CBATP wandered in and ran his hand up the back of my neck, stoked the underneath of my hair until I was all tingly and he totally could have been the boss of me.

Next: Unicorn Shenanigans and the Inconvenient Epiphany*

*Would be a good name for a band.

Happy About Ms. and Mr. Sweetheart

Last Sunday, I had my favorite metamour day so far. Ms. Sweetheart was in town for a meetup with one of her online communities and I was superexcited to spend some time with her. To tell the truth, if we hadn’t been with a rather vanilla-y crowd, I’d’ve been an eensy bit snuggly toward her. I like the way she makes me feel looked-after: During dinner, a chocolate chip from my bread pudding fell on my jeans and she didn’t hesitate to try and clean it off—to no avail, but still.

When Sweetie came to pick me up, Ms. Sweetheart walked me over to the car, saying “Do you think I should’ve blown their minds and told them you’re dating my boyfriend?”

And that’s how I found out that Mr. Sweetheart and I are dating, and I guess he felt the same. When I told him what she said, he said, “Oh, I’ll have to thank her, now I know!”

So yay, we’re dating. We have a weekly phone date on Wednesdays at 8 pm and plans for a visit are starting to come together.

And, (I can’t resist saying) speaking of coming together, during this week’s call he suggested talking about regular stuff for the first hour and then getting smutty after that. Sweetie even gave me the house to myself for the evening so I could speak (etc) without worrying she’d hear more than she wanted to.

When it came time to talk dirty, I was uncharacteristically shy—there are a lot of things I’ve written that I have yet to feel comfortable saying. He was kind enough to do the talking and oh, swoon, what a talker.

I kind of flunked “what are you wearing?” I had cute lacy pajama shorts on but I had to admit to a ratty and less-than-hot old top. Next week I’ll take the opportunity to put on an outfit—for a nudist, I’ve been getting preoccupied about outfits lately. I think that’s partly because I’ve been working out and I’m starting to feel a little more lingerie-able or something.

I was surprised by how intimate and sensual it felt—the sound of his voice made it feel like he was close. I got all warm and soft as if he were there to run his hands over me. He told a rope-themed story full of helpful angles and detail, but the part that gave me such a squirm/twinge/sparkle of lust was when he said something like “I’m getting nice and hard for you” and then said my name. What was it about hearing my name? I don’t think I’ve heard it said to me like that before.

“Are you ready to come for me yet?” he asked, saying my name again.

“Aaaalmost…” I sighed. I couldn’t really scrape together too many words the whole time, mostly moans and breaths and sighs which I felt oddly self-conscious about on the phone but nonetheless could not stop making.

I was in a dreamy, sleepy state and held the phone to my ear with my shoulder while I rubbed my nipples and clit.

“Come for me.” (Is there a better sentence in the universe?) and I did come, a new kind of orgasm swelled up and crested like an obedient (but still naughty) wave. I heard him come on the other end of the line too, and we were together and happy. We panted our way back to regular talk until it was time to say goodnight, at which time I texted him 1. The doodle I’d made during the regular part of the conversation and 2. A picture of the wet crotch of my PJ bottoms.

Even writing this a couple of days later, I still feel like we should high-five. Instead, here's a star:

Cuddle Party Part One: Yay, a Lot Less Grief!

I am so excited and happy to have a new adventure to write about. Before I start, I thought I’d share the cuddle party rules, copied from www.cuddleparty.com:

“ARRIVE ON TIME: Once we begin the Welcome Circle and orientation, sorry, we can let no one enter late. This creates comfort and safety by knowing that everyone is on the same page about rules and expectations.

WHAT TO WEAR: Pajamas – nothing too risqué. Think more comfy than sexy. (More drawstrings, less lace! No shorts.)

WHAT TO BRING: Sorry, no liquor folks. Juice or sparkling cider is always welcome. A pillow or stuffed animal if you like. Otherwise, just bring your smiling self.

STICK TO THE RULES:

1.                      Pajamas stay on the whole time.

2.                      You don’t have to cuddle anyone at a Cuddle Party, ever.

3.                      You must ask permission and receive a verbal YES before you touch anyone. (Be as specific in your request as you can.)

4.                      If you’re a yes, say YES. If you’re a no, say NO.

5.                      If you’re a maybe, say NO.

6.                      You are encouraged to change your mind.

7.                      Respect your relationship agreements and communicate with your partner.

8.                      Get your Cuddle Party Facilitator or the Cuddle Assistant if you have a question or concern or need assistance with anything during the Cuddle Party.

9.                      Tears and laughter are both welcome.

10.                  Respect people’s privacy when sharing about Cuddle Parties.

11.                  Keep the Cuddle space tidy”

In order to capture what Saturday’s party was like for me, I need to backtrack a little to the Snuggle Party that I attended back in February. It was called a Snuggle Party because it didn’t follow all of the same rules, just most of them. It was a little more sex-friendly—women were allowed to strip down to their bras and sexy touching was encouraged. But all the neat stuff about yesses and nos were in place.

I attended the Snuggle Party as part of a fantastic conference day, one of the happiest days of my life, actually. I had spent the day feeling accepted and body-positive and had even had the most wonderful Indian food and gelato date with Sweetie. (She brought me gum so that I wouldn’t have too-spicy breath while snuggling—we know she’s awesome like that.)That was the day I started my tradition of getting fresh socks after every adventure—so soothing.

All of that wonderfulness aside, as soon as the welcome circle began, I got a terrible pain in my middle back. No matter how much I stretched or sat up straight or exhaled loudly, it huuuurt. I have a skeptical/aloof view about body energy, even though I experience it all the time, but this definitely felt like some terrible blocked energy. It began to radiate down from my back into my hips, and up into my shoulders. I went to the facilitator for help and she said the only way to stop the hurt was to stop dismissing my grief (over Bill, over all that time fighting being bi, about the hurt in my marriage, and so on), so I did—I cried a little to the snuggle facilitator and a lot to Sweetie on the way home. I call it a snuggle fail, but it really isn’t. That crying was so productive—it was kinda like handing in homework, and you know I love handing in homework.

Sweetie was overwhelmed and scared by the depth and breadth of my sobbing, but she did the best she could as we drove home. What I was crying about was, I felt like everyone there was so nice and someone bad like me could never belong with them, like I would only cause trouble with my bad energy. “You’re good enough,” Sweetie said over and over, “You’re good enough.” Scary as those tears were, I knew they were getting me somewhere.

Back to the present, on Saturday, Sweetie and I had had such a wonderful day together and I was settling into a book of Jonathan Franzen essays, so it was hard to pry ourselves out of the house. Like on so many other adventures, she’d offered to drive me and go to a coffeeshop nearby to work on her graphic design. (It occurs to me that it might be good to drive myself next adventure...) When we pulled up to the ashram, it was a somewhat foreboding house on a woodsy lane—spooky. Sweetie offered to see me in but I took my suitcase and kissed her goodbye, found my way to the back of the house and went in.

I saw one couple that I knew right away, that was comforting. It was hot in there, muggy and something else. There was a spread of snacks out in the kitchen that people had gathered around—this Cuddle Party was part of a weekend-long series of Tantra workshops, so people looked flushed and tired and seemed bonded. It didn’t look the way one might picture an ashram, just a regular pretty-big kitchen in a regular house. The body smell of everyone was less funky than one might expect—it was fresh. Not quite clean, but clear.

Cuddle Host One, a solid, sensible-seeming butch lady, came over and introduced herself. She gave me a waiver to sign. “This says you don’t hold us responsible if you have an emotional breakthrough.” Ok, noted. I felt aaaawkward and couldn’t find a surface to write on. I ended up ruining the email list by putting it down in some water. I didn’t really know where to put myself, either.

When I saw the room being set up for the Cuddle Party, my first instinct was to run. It seemed impossibly small for all of these people. Cuddle Host One was spreading out all kinds of blankets and pillows. I thought about adding my own blanket but didn’t want to have to pull it out from under anybody of I had to leave early. A cute fifty-ish man was asleep in front of the air conditioner. There was cute/radical Etsy-style art on the walls—that made me feel at home. There were lots of books on the shelves about being bi and sacred—how nice!

Comparing my body’s reaction to the Snuggle Party back in February and its reaction to this Cuddle Party really lets me know that I’ve gotten somewhere. Though there was awkwardness, there was no anxiety or pain. There were some guys who weren’t being careful with space, but I didn’t feel scared of them. I settled in and let my curiosity take over, knowing that Jonathan Franzen was there if I needed him, but letting myself be soft and present. There wasn’t pain in my center, but warmth—I wasn’t ready to let strangers hug me, but I was safe.

 

My teacher-brain suggests that I use Cuddle Parties as a quarterly assessment to see how far I’ve come towards inner safety and self-acceptance. I can’t always see the progress I’m making, but as I settled into that room of strangers the way one might settle into a warm bath, I could see I deserved a gold star.

Next: The Welcome Circle