AN INVITATION MOST CURIOUS
It was but a week past when I received an invitation most peculiar, extended not by a close acquaintance, but through that wonderfully tangled web of “friends of friends” — a network that never ceases to surprise me. The missive invited me to partake in a gathering known as a Cuddle Up Party, a title so quaint and disarming that it might have sprung from the imagination of a child rather than a society starved of genuine human contact.
The hosts, it seemed, were conducting this novel experiment for the very first time, lamenting the modern human’s dire deficiency of oxytocin — that most tender and trustworthy of chemicals — in our mechanised, twenty-first-century lives. I was informed, with some awkwardness, that the gathering had been designed exclusively for heterosexual participants.
“Is that not a shade unjust?” I enquired, for surely the balm of touch belongs to all mankind and not to any particular sexual orientation. My friend, who bore the news, apologised for this early limitation, assuring me that future iterations would indeed widen the fold, embracing those whose affections defy traditional labels.
“And is this an open invitation?” I pressed further.
“Not entirely,” came the reply, “for the moment, the guest list comprises mostly known faces, with a few unfamiliar ones added for novelty’s sake.”
I pondered this curious assembly and, more out of intrigue than conviction, replied: “Very well, count me in.”
THE WORLD’S CROOKED JUDGEMENT
When I shared this impending adventure with a companion, his reaction was as swift as it was crude: “Mate, you’ve lost your mind! Cuddling? That’s such a gay thing!”
I regarded him with quiet astonishment. How childishly we’ve come to think! For in India — as in many lands — the touch of a friend’s hand or the embrace shared upon parting or reunion is unburdened by the shadow of sexuality. These gestures, natural and sincere, need no further meaning. My friend, however, remained unconvinced.
Another fellow, sitting nearby, laid down his coffee cup and asked, “When did all this arrive in India?”
The first man arched his brows. “Arrive? What do you mean?”
“This... this entire business of labelling everything gay,” the second clarified.
The first man shrugged. “I suppose it began about fifteen years ago. Since then, it seems everyone and everything has been assigned to one box or another.”
I observed, in that moment, how certain minds bristle at the notion of ambiguity — how much easier it is to confine people into tidy categories than to recognise the fluid, splendid complexity of the human heart.
To reduce a person to a word, particularly one that refers to their private affections, is to commit an act of unspeakable poverty. It suggests, not the nature of the person described, but the smallness of the one doing the describing.
For myself, a heterosexual man, I have always found it utterly absurd that anyone would concern themselves with the gender of another’s beloved. There is a vulgar idleness, a tragic misuse of thought, in such gossip.
THE STARVED HEART AND THE POWER OF TOUCH
In truth, I found the very concept of the Cuddle Up Party rather refreshing. For it sought to mend, even if momentarily, the rent fabric of modern intimacy. Too long have we allowed the frenetic pace of life — the endless rush to prove, achieve, and outdo — to steal from us the simplest of human needs: the comfort of touch.
Whether offered by a parent, a friend, a lover, or even a colleague, the gentle, nonverbal reassurance of touch is nothing short of sustenance for the soul.
THE MISGUIDED LESSONS OF MASCULINITY
From early childhood, boys are taught a woefully narrow vocabulary of touch. In their world, physical contact is either the commonness of violence or the prelude to sex. The innocence of mere affection is lost in this exchange.
The tragedy is not solely theirs to bear, for society itself — that great unwitting tutor — has long shaped this misconception. Men are trained to believe that physical closeness must always serve some ulterior motive, rather than simply being a solace to the soul, a wordless way to say “I am here with you.”
I wish the world taught its sons, as it should teach its daughters, that physical touch is neither sinful nor salacious. Rather, it is one of the rare gifts we possess to assure each other of presence, safety, and companionship.
Nakedness, too, should not scandalise the mind, for the human form, in its infinite variations, is merely a vessel. To see it as a provocation is a corruption of the senses. To touch another, or to be touched, is to engage in a dialogue older than speech — one of trust, not temptation.
THE HUNTER AND HIS PREY: A FALSE EVOLUTION
We men have for centuries been shackled by another fable: the notion that we must hunt, conquer, and possess. Our forebears fashioned this narrative from the raw clay of survival, but the world has changed, and we must learn to change with it.
The man who cannot drape his arm around another in friendship, who cannot lean into affection without fear of judgment, is not strong but imprisoned. The walls built by generations of repressed tenderness must be brought down, brick-by-brick.
To learn the art of touch is to rediscover a part of oneself lost to time — a part that is neither childish nor carnal but deeply, beautifully human.
AN EVENING OF SURRENDER
When the evening arrived, I found myself standing before the venue, punctually, if not entirely confidently. A young lady, radiant and welcoming, received me at the door and ushered me into a hall dressed in the soft hues of comfort: cushions scattered like clouds, sage-green wallpaper, and an Italian chandelier whose crystals twinkled like the stars overhead.
I scanned the room, half-hoping for a familiar face. Only one caught my eye: a young woman seated alone, her head bowed into her folded knees, a silent sentinel against the wall. Being an ambivert, I felt the urge to turn and flee, but managed to steady myself. Our eyes met; she offered a smile as genuine as sunlight, and I, warmed by her ease, responded in kind.
Before long, familiar companions arrived, injecting life into my nerves like wine into weary limbs. We exchanged small talk, confessions of concerns and curiosity, each of us wondering aloud — and silently — what lay ahead.
THE LAWS OF TOUCH
The host, the same gracious lady, gathered us at the heart of the room and laid down the evening’s rules.
No kissing. No touching without explicit consent. Clothes remain firmly on.
She stressed that even a moment’s hesitation was reason enough to decline an embrace, and that the night was to be one of honest communion, not enforced sociability.
A friend, ever the jester, raised the age-old question: “And what if one finds oneself... aroused?”
A ripple of laughter spread through the room, which she met with perfect poise: “You wait, and you let it pass.”
It was the simplest of answers, and the most perfect.
WORDS WRITTEN, FEELINGS SPOKEN
We were then asked to write down the reasons that had brought us here. I wrote with candour: I was weary of the hypocrisy that surrounds touch in our world, of the absurd assumption that any act of affection must lead, inexorably, to sex.
When I read my thoughts aloud, I felt no fear of judgment. Others followed suit, each voice adding another thread to the embroidery of human longing.
THE TOUCH OF MAGIC
It was shortly thereafter that I met her — the young lady whose eyes held the allure of starlight and shadow alike. Her gaze entranced me, disarming all pretence.
“Are you an illusionist?” I asked, knowing well the question betrayed the spell I was under.
She laughed, light as dawn breaking, and asked, “May I hug you?”
Though I had secretly yearned for the invitation, I found myself bashfully reluctant. She reassured me gently: “It’s just a hug.”
And so we embraced, and in that simple gesture, I found a wellspring of emotion too deep for words.
BEYOND DESIRE, TOWARD TRUTH
The hours that followed were a revelation, as walls of reserve crumbled and strangers became companions through the power of touch. Heads rested upon shoulders, arms entwined in consolation rather than conquest. The old world, with its suspicion and fear, seemed far away — irrelevant, even.
When the evening came to its close, I was struck by a sense of peace. The party had not been a descent into moral laxity, as some would have feared, but rather an ascent toward a truer, freer humanity.
AN UNEXPECTED EPILOGUE
Upon returning home, I scoured the world’s literature for evidence that others had seen the wisdom in this simple intimacy. I stumbled upon a study, delightfully confirming my own reflections, chronicled in The Huffington Post.
In it, British sociologists reported that an overwhelming majority of straight male athletes had, at one time or another, shared a bed or even spooned with another man, not as a prelude to passion, but as an expression of comfort and brotherhood.
As the study rightly noted, such behaviours, long deemed scandalous by the calcified standards of older generations, are now emerging from the shadows. The modern man is at last reclaiming a birthright that should never have been stripped from him: the right to touch, to hold, and to be held — without shame and without the shadow of suspicion.
And so, as the old world falls away, piece-by-piece, I look forward to the day when an embrace shall once again be seen for what it truly is: a quiet declaration of human kinship.
