August 17, 2004

So all day I’ve been dying to blog about my Sat night in New York. I was all dressed up in a black sundress and knockoff knockoff manolo blahniks waiting in the uber ultra Gansevoort lobby when Richard picked me up and told me to go back upstairs and change into pajamas.
Me: “Why?”
Richard: “Because I’m taking you to a cuddle party.”
Me: “A sex party?”
(At this point I was thinking the rich boy had some kinks, not that anything really scares me off except bad breath)
Richard: “Not a sex party. A cuddle party.”

Since I have no pajamas and he said a teddy was out (which made me wonder if he was gay even though he went down on me like a champ Friday night), I confusedly (yes, it’s a word, judgey people, although judgey is not) put on my sweats and a jogbra and we left.

Ten minutes later, we arrived at the upper east side apartment of a 30ish woman who’s name is either Orite or Allright. She had a beautifully decorated one bedroom penthouse that she pays $6000 a month for. No wonder she needs a hug! She introduced herself as the “cuddle lifeguard” and then told us some of the rules: no alcohol, no risqué outfits (wow, my computer did that accent all by itself!), no dry humping, arrive on time, be hygienically savvy… as she rambled on, I looked at Richard and started hating him. Why would he take me to this thing on my one big night out?! Later he explained that everyone in Manhattan is talking about it and he thought it might be fun. Fun to me = having a drink and making out. I’m not twelve! And even when I was twelve I was having a drink and making out!

But the truth is, the night ended up being okay. As Richard cuddled me, he discreetly gave me a big O during which I remained silent. I’m normally pretty vocal, but I was so fearful that the cuddlemonsters would kick us out that I changed my style. And then I passed out – and not on alcohol, just on good ol’ hand sex & huggin'. At the end of the night, Orite or Norite called for everybody to make a puppy pile in the middle of the floor, so we did. And I stuck my foot in a bearded guy’s mouth by accident. Richard and I then went back to the hotel for some sex (the real kind, not this cuddle bullshit) and Olympics.

I was glad we went to the cuddle party, but never again. Call me crazy, but there’s something uncomfortable about being in some lady’s apartment touching strangers… unless the stranger is someone you met the weekend before.