FOR MANY MEN, intimacy has long been synonymous with physical closeness. If you were “intimate” with someone, it meant you’d had sex. But intimacy has undergone a rebrand, and is now thought of as something that goes beyond just the physical, and encapsulates emotional closeness too.
As a queer person who sleeps predominantly with men, I have grown up as part of a community that threw the barn doors wide open when it came to loudly and proudly discussing sex. From gay dating websites to hookup apps, all the way back to cruising and cottaging, gay and bisexual men have always enjoyed a unique relationship to sex.
But in an age where one night stands and sex parties have become available to us 24/7, I wanted to find out what a slightly different and arguably more intimate connection could look like. And so I paid a visit to a ‘Gay Cuddle Club’.
Dotted around London each month, the cuddle club is a dedicated group that welcomes gay, bisexual, queer and non-binary people to experience two hours of… well, cuddling. I first heard about it from my therapist, who suggested the space while we were ways for me to re-engage with physical intimacy as a survivor of rape. I was intrigued as to what a ‘cuddle’ connection would be like with complete strangers, and if it could offer a safe re-entry into what was the start of a new relationship with intimacy.
So what’s the purpose of the cuddle club?
Run by a trained practitioner with nearly two decades of experience in somatic healing, yoga and massage, it’s a space for those curious about the importance of touch and connection to slow things down and ask ourselves how it really feels to connect in a way that is gentle yet intentional. Touch is something we can take for granted, and having the opportunity to actually check in with ourselves about how it feels to be touched, and to touch others, is a rarity—especially as gay men.
As I walked in, I was asked to take my shoes and socks off and leave them downstairs, and then head on upstairs to a room full of yoga mats, candles, cushions and the smell of incense. We were encouraged to lay down to start, stretching out and were then guided initially into a group meditation.
Sitting up, I realised that there were more people in the room than there had been when I had closed my eyes, and noted the variety of ages of people who had come. Young and old, all from completely different walks of life. As we arranged ourselves in a circle, we each introduced ourselves and shared an intention for the session; our individual reasons for attending. I shared, introducing myself and affirming to the group that I was here “to explore what it means to connect with softness.”
Here’s how it worked.
We arranged ourselves into pairs and were guided through a “position” by the guide. The first involved one person standing and the other sat facing away from us. We slowly made contact with our partner with our hands, asking them if this was OK, and continued to massage their shoulders. After five minutes we would swap, sealing each position with a hug, and thanking our partner for the experience.
Something that struck me was the ways our partners would communicate consent. We were given verbal and non-verbal cues to share in the session so that our partner would know that we were happy to give or receive the assigned touch. As someone with a history of sexual violence, being able to confidently learn how to communicate boundaries in this way was incredibly helpful, as well as healing, reminding me that “no” is a full sentence.
As each position ended, one person from each pair would move around the room, allowing us to connect with another person in the group. Collectively, the partnered positions became more physically intimate. From laying down together and spooning, to offering foot and head massage, each moment was an opportunity to provide and receive touch in a way that allowed us all to feel held and seen by the other person. The space enabled each of us to really concentrate on what we were experiencing inside our bodies when we were embraced. No feeling was right or wrong. We might not like it or we might love it; it was OK either way. We were learning how to understand what we did and didn’t like, and communicate that with kindness.
As we went on, I was understanding swiftly what it felt like to actually be touched by a man in a way that wasn’t flippant, or just about having sex. It was one of the first times I felt like I could really connect with another person in a way that felt completely respectful.
One moment that was actually the hardest was when we were tasked with standing opposite our partner and asked to just look into each other’s eyes. Some of us held hands, some of us didn’t, but the act of just looking into someone’s eyes for 60 seconds felt excruciatingly intimate, and surprisingly challenging. But we all were able to notice that, and share that this is why we were there: to learn how to be intimate in ways that are new and ultimately difficult.
I know what you’re thinking: what about any sexual energy that arises? What happens then? Well, as with all energy in the room, our guide made it clear to us from the start that this wasn’t a place to feel shame for feeling a certain way. If sexual energy arises, that’s OK—but it’s also asserted from the getgo that this isn’t a sexual experience. We are fully clothed, and respectful. But we’re also human, so giving the sexual energy a space to be acknowledged (but not prioritized) was really helpful as someone who feared getting an awkward erection, or being surprised by someone else’s.
As the session closed, I reflected on the fact that none of us had said more than a handful of words in two whole hours, yet we all felt so connected to each other as we put our shoes on and headed out the door—in stark contrast to how we all first shyly walked into the room.
As a survivor of sexual violence, I learned how important it is to know you can say yes and no as much as you like: even if it’s just a hand on the shoulder, you’re always allowed to say you don’t want that. I was also shocked at how difficult it felt to be intimate in such a measured way, despite having a history of one night stands. In many ways, this new experience felt more intimate—and more vulnerable—than sleeping with a stranger for the first time.
The way I view intimacy has had a shift since the session too. I used to think that if I desired intimacy, then I must desire sex. But I now understand that wanting intimacy or physical connection with a man doesn’t need to be sexual to be fulfilling at all.
In platonic relationships, especially in the Western world, physical intimacy isn’t the norm, especially between two men. But after my first session at the cuddle club, I wish that were different. I feel encouraged to ask my male, female and non-binary friends if they want to hug, or cuddle when we spend time together. To expand on my learning that physical intimacy is merely an extension of love and adoration for another, and take what I’ve been introduced to out of the studio and into the real world.
It felt freeing to be able to hold hands, hug a man, and affirm my identity as a queer person softly and tenderly. I never got to do that when I was younger, and went straight into having anonymous sex as a teenager with other men, so being able to have this space felt retroactively healing, like it was also laying new ground for my future self to be able to explore intimacy in a healthier way.
So, if you ever find yourself feeling alone, saying to yourself, “I wish I could just have a cuddle with someone,” then know that there might just be a place for you to have that squeeze—and learn a whole lot more about yourself in the process.
