The Intimacy Trade

The rise of intimacy as a service (illustration by Kenneth Wong)

Some enterprising folks seem to have figured out that, with a few tweaks to the world's oldest profession, they could create new business models to cater to the generation that yearns for--and are willing to pay for--intimacy.

In Portland, Sam, a snuggly petite, operates Cuddle Up to Me, a web site that gives you the option to book a cuddling session. She charges $35 for half hour, or $60 for an hour, with additional expense for travel. Also on the menu is overnight cuddling, lasting up to 10 hours.

She writes, "If you could use some one-on-one cuddle time without the complications that life normally brings us, then I am your girl. Let’s hold hands and cuddle up on the couch, or listen to some soft music while we curl up in your bed—I am happy to be the big spoon or the little spoon. My purpose is to make you feel comfortable, loved, and appreciated."

Closer home in my beloved San Francisco, Dana Garrison, a life coach and therapist, and Travis Sigley, an entrepreneur and former stripper, jointly run Cuddle Therapy, described as "a platonic cuddling service designed to help people with any need for touch or intimacy."

I've also spotted a few independent operators in the classified section in Craig's List.  Earlier this month, in the "Services" section, someone posted, "Cuddle with a Cute College girl: Hostess with the Mostess!" (The post is no longer available, as it has expired.) The poster writes, "Have you ever wanted to cuddle with a cute, young, college girl? Do you miss feeling a sense of intimacy? Do you have extra cash to help local college girls in your area? Message for photos/rates/availability." The poster makes it clear, however, that "This is NOT prostitution!!! ... Acts during your time slot are limited to cuddling, pillow talk, and some cover stealing."

Her potential clients, it seems, are also browsing the same site. In the same week of this post, I stumbled on another post, which has since expired. In the post titled "Paid to Sleep," the poster explains, "I'm looking for someone to come over and spend the night with me. No sex, no pressure, just someone to be there to cuddle up ..." He's looking specifically for "Female, 18-28, average to slim build, good hygiene." For that, the poster is willing to pay $50. He also leaves the door open for "arrangements for something ongoing."

If, on the other hand, your needs are more conversational than physical, you may log on to My Friend Jill, a site where you may spill your guts to a stranger. For $30, Jill is your friend for "a quick, focused conversation" lasting 25 mins; for $50, she's yours for a "deeper, broader conversation" lasting 50 mins.

If you're late to your brunch with your friend or cancel on her, she may give you a tongue-lashing or wag her finger, but I seriously doubt she'll bill you for her time. Jill, however, will. If you're ten minutes late, if you cancel less than 24 hours in advance, Jill will charge you the full price of the booked session.

RentAFriend lets you browse a list of local people--complete with profile photos, activities they enjoy, and their quirks--who would gladly be your friend for a tennis match, a hot-air balloon ride, or a lazy afternoon chat over coffee. But unlike the free dating site OKCupid, your RentAFriend membership has a cost ($24.95 a month); so does your on-demand friendship ($10 per hour).

The blending of commerce and intimacy, to me, suggests a troubling trend. It shows a society--or a segment of it, at any rate--that's willing to decouple the rewards of intimate relationships from the patience and labor required to build and maintain them.

I can understand sex with no strings attached. Sometimes the hot-blooded physical needs arise independent of romantic relationships. (I believe, however, that the two should ideally go hand in hand.) But the very idea of friendship or intimacy as a commodity--something I might walk up to a cafe counter and order, like a piece of scone--seems paradoxical.

When I reached out to one of the professional cuddlers to learn more about how she operates (I disclosed to her I wanted to write an essay about it), she replied, "The money side doesn't detract from the experience at all. After all, does paying for chocolate makes it less sweet?"

But in my view, that rhetorical question warrants an answer. Intimacy--the genuine kind--isn't exactly a piece of candy. It cannot be bought or sold; it has to be earned. The consoling hugs I get from my friends or the spontaneous pecks I give them on their cheeks aren't completely free. They're invested with years of emotions. They're the byproducts of shared laughter and tears, of countless brunches and movie nights, of fights and reconciliations that brought us closer.

The few women I've been fortunate enough to be in a position to cuddle with were more than just warm bodies to me. I was there not because I wanted to get my money's worth; I was there because I'd rather be nowhere else. They didn't keep stopwatches on their bed stands or send me invoices afterward. We lay next to each other out of our own volition, not out of obligation.

Since I raise no sanctimonious objection to prostitution, and certainly don't believe in treating sex workers like criminals, I'm by no means condemning the creative ways some people have chosen to make a living by servicing others' emotional needs. This is not a diatribe dashed off in moral outrage. Not at all.

This is merely a cautionary note--from a hopeless romantic who wants to safeguard the sanctity of friendship and romance--that paying for intimacy may get us more than what we bargain for in the long run. The true price of on-demand intimacy is not measured in dollars but in our stunted emotional growth, in our lack of patience to sow and wait for relationships to flourish.

Note: For another perspective on touch starvation, read my friend Sasha Cagen's blog post here.