I accidentally spent the last three weeks alone in my apartment. I got a lot of shit done, but I think I left my place for a total of four days. As a result, one of the only males with whom I’d have contact was that guy who casually interrupts my playlists to hawk the benefits of Spotify Premium. In an effort to inject myself back into society, per request of the juiceless cuntalope between my thighs, I opened my Cuddlr app.

If you were not yet aware, Cuddlr is a chintzy Tinder for the sole purpose of ‘safe’ and platonic cuddling. Have you guys tried this yet? Of course you haven’t. You’re not a Midwestern sack of lonely tits writing this from her IKEA loft bed. Guess who is, though? Take my hand. Let’s skip down to the tracks and peep this trainwreck together.

Recent observations proved that cuddling, right up there with babycore and Bruce Jenner, appeared to be trending pretty hard in Los Angeles. I understood this venture to be a potential rape trap, but mama was thirsty. Harvesting a juicy apple in a concrete jungle full of sun-shriveled worms was as feasible as farm-to-table options at 7-11. Why not temporarily fill that void within myself as some barnacle dick’s body pillow?

To be frank, I’d been quietly lurking on the app for a few weeks now. The guy I was boning previously wasn’t much of a snugglier, thus leaving me parched for some fully-clothed, crack-to-tip contact. Being that this app was overwhelmingly unpopular with sane-themed humans, the first few weeks of requests from fellow ‘Cuddlrs’ were horrifying. Remember when you were little and you would sneak into the ‘Adults Only’ section at the back of the video store? You’d look around and see all these people in deep internal conflict, hands-in-pockets, trying to decide between Gutter Mouths or Cum Swappers II. These were the people on this app. Also, I scrolled past a 14-year-old. Evidently, somebody in Los Angeles does not know where their child is.

Out of the 112 people who appeared in my cuddle radius, one hundred of them were men. Pause. Where, then, had one hundred dudes who ‘just want to cuddle’ been hiding out my entire LA life? Surely confined to whacking it during the stretch mark shift at the Deja-Vu, right? Nay. It turns out, praise be to GPS, most reside within a stone’s throw of my Hollywood apartment.

Thankfully, as the days progressed, more approachable buddies joined the app, and the requests rolled in. The majority of these cuddle notifications appeared, as one might expect, during dishonorable periods of the night. What wasn’t as easy to ignore, however, were the gang of requests coming in during hours typically reserved for productivity and adulthood. Take note, if you want to hold me in your arms at 7:30 a.m., it’s happening in line at the McDonalds Drive-Thru. At that hour, the only thing I want to press my pee-pee against is a sack of pocket-sized hashbrowns.

Out of the 97 hits in my queue, I accepted three of them and agreed, after a brief exchange, to cuddle with one. He chatted me up with eager thumbs, explaining that I was to be his second cuddle. Previously, he had hugged it out with another on a public bench “for five minutes.” I tried to imagine those five minutes…two people approach a park bench and hold each other with great intensity, only to separate and never embrace again…

I believe a Coldplay video art directed by an UGG boot couldn’t stir up that much whimsy. Say no more.

On the precipice of my first cuddle, my thoughts are swirling. If I put his hand on my boob, will he ever call me again? Is his facial hair listed on the Bed Bug Registry? In case of erectile emergency, is the nearest exit indeed behind me? Perhaps the biggest question here is, what if this is the tender Tinder alternative for which I’ve been searching?

I’ll finally have someone to watch Gutter Mouths with – that’s what.


To Be Continued….


By Dominique Joelle