A "head-to-head" cuddle from Cuddlr's website More

(Cuddlr)

There were two social networks that blew up in the past week whose founders weren’t quite ready for all the attention. The first was dark horse, anti-ad application Ello. The second was a “creeptastic” app for finding someone to snuggle with — Cuddlr.

While the former blew up because of a legitimate need from the LGBT community to protest Facebook’s real-names policy, the latter seems to have exploded because of its unusual premise. The question that bounced around the InterWebs, from Time to The Washington Post was, “What insane person would volunteer to spoon with a stranger?” Answered shortly thereafter by “only a really creepy one.”

It’s easy to make fun of an app without giving it a shot. It’s a little harder to summon the courage to try it. It’s a social experiment masquerading as a tech service, and someone needed to get to the bottom of it.

You can see where this is headed. I cuddled with a stranger in the name of “journalism.” Or something. I sacrificed myself on the altar of really awkward new encounters, just for you, dear readers. I wasn’t the first to consider it — writers at The Washington Post and The Daily Dot gave it a shot. But neither could find a match because they both had boyfriends, which repelled the potential cuddlees.

I’m single, so that wasn’t going to be an out for me. This was one of those situations where being a reporter spurred me to try something I would’ve been curious about but wouldn’t have had the guts to try otherwise.

Cuddling on a regular basis satisfies a very basic human need. For all the benefits of my single lifestyle, I certainly miss hugs, head scratches, big spoon-little spoon, and the other moments that make you feel emotionally connected to another person. The idea that I could order that, instantaneously, via an app the same way I might order my dinner or transportation is appealing as much as it’s unsettling.

It’s the ridiculous byproduct of our socially networked society, but there’s something compelling about it. That’s why it went viral and everyone from The New York Times to The Onion pondered Cuddlr. Are we really willing to rely on an app to facilitate something as vulnerable and intimate as cuddling? And what does that say about our relationship to technology and each other?

That was the question I set out to answer, and my Cuddlr experience was just as weird — but also far more sweet — than I imagined it would be. Here’s how it went down.

Cuddlr's welcoming screens More

Cuddlr’s welcoming screens.

Is this a hookup app masquerading as snuggles?

After a day spent requesting matches with other cuddlees, I had struck out. Although people connected with me on the app, when it came time to actually meet up everyone wimped out. One person just responded, “This app is ridiculous.” Another sent me his number but said he was out of town.

It’s understandable. Although online dating apps — and Tinder in particular — have conditioned us to overcome the awkwardness of stranger interactions, it’s a whole separate story to get physically intimate with said stranger. Furthermore, the app didn’t offer any information about proposed cuddlers — just their names and a small picture. Not enough people have used it for “cuddle rankings” to appear.

But then I heard from Monica*. She messaged me later in the evening and once I shared my number we started SMSing to get to know each other. A lot of winky and smiley face emoticons ensued. They had a silent subtext: “I hope you’re not a serial killer! :)” “I hope you’re not either! ;)”

Story continues