The Cuddle Puddle

It all started innocently enough — as most bizarre tales tend to. I’d picked up a new sport (the details of which I’ll leave to your imagination — just picture something sweaty, vaguely competitive, and with a lot of balls), and amidst the panting and polite small talk, I made a new friend.

He was witty, lively, and fun to hang around with. A short, black Kenyan bloke with boundless energy, a long-term girlfriend, and — as I was soon to discover — a few quirks of his own. Nothing romantic ever happened between us. Just mates. I mean, come on, I’m a sucker for a tall, moody Scandi type with cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread, so he wasn’t quite ticking my boxes.

One day, he invited me out for a pre-game drink. A casual chinwag over a pint. Nothing suspect. We’re sitting at this table, mid-laugh, when he drops this curveball right into my beer:

“Do you know what polyamory is?”

I blink. “Vaguely,” I say, half wondering if this is a pop quiz or the beginning of a TED Talk.

He grins and explains — casually, as if he’s describing a new gym class — that he and his girlfriend are poly. As in: they date other people. Simultaneously. With permission. And apparently, he thinks I’d make a lovely addition to his portfolio.

“You know, I really like you,” he says, eyes twinkling across the table, “and I find you incredibly attractive.”

Right. Record scratch.

I put my hand up like I’m hailing a cab in central London and go, “I’m going to stop you right there.”

What I wanted to say was: “Even if you were single, monogamous, and wearing a Viking helmet, I still wouldn’t be interested, mate.” But I settled for a polite no-thank-you and left with my pint and dignity intact.

Fast forward a week and I get a Facebook friend request from someone called Ze Rug (yes, really), inviting me to a “brunch and after-party” at my mate's  flat. Intrigued — and mildly suspicious — I click on the event.

It's called… The Cuddle Puddle.

Now, hindsight is a wonderful thing. The name should have set off all kinds of alarm bells, sirens, maybe even a klaxon or two. But no, like a moth to a very affectionate flame, I RSVP’d yes.

I arrived to what can only be described as a human tidal wave. People pouring into his flat like it was Love Island meets Bake Off. Girls — dozens of them — gliding in and kissing him on the lips like he was the host of some alternate-universe Bachelor. I stood there, blinking in disbelief, wondering how he had managed to acquire this many women when I couldn’t even manage one mildly interested Hinge match.

But the brunch? Oh, the brunch. Ten out of ten. We all cooked together. Pancakes, shakshuka, bottomless mimosas. It was heavenly. For a moment, I thought, Maybe I misjudged this whole thing. Maybe I’ve stumbled into a brunch-based utopia.

Then the plates were cleared.

Everyone gravitated toward a massive rug in the living room — The Rug, I presumed, although Ze never personally introduced themselves — and began... cuddling. Except cuddling is too soft a word. We’re talking kisses, caresses, hands everywhere, and enough pheromones to fog up the windows.

I, a mere kitchen spectator, stood clutching a dishcloth like it was a crucifix, watching my mate give cheek kisses here, a lingering grope there, and then — then — he glides over and starts gently stroking my back.

Reader, I did not linger.

I bolted. Somewhere between the curtains being drawn and his girlfriend sweetly announcing, “If anyone needs more privacy, there’s a spare room,” I realised this was all a bit too modern for my liking. I needed tea. I needed air. I needed out.

As I fled down the stairs, I couldn’t help but wonder — is this what dating is now? Cuddle puddles and brunch orgies with people named after household items?

I’m all for freedom, open minds, and exploring boundaries — but maybe just not on a Sunday afternoon with shakshuka breath.

So if you, dear reader, ever find yourself invited to a mysteriously named event hosted by a man with too many girlfriends and a penchant for communal rugs — proceed with caution. And maybe, just maybe, bring your own chair.

Craving more awkward escapades and brunch misadventures? Stay tuned. There’s always another story brewing, preferably with fewer cuddles and more coffee.