It was never my intention to become the poster child for a “Worst. Night. Ever.” experience this summer, but fate, and perhaps the internet, had other plans. My colleagues at the office, in a display of workplace camaraderie I’m still questioning, presented me with a trio of truly cringe-worthy options for a summer assignment, options they seemed to have been stockpiling all year just for this moment. Let’s just say, I narrowly avoided a gun enthusiast convention, and for that, I am eternally grateful. Instead, the collective wisdom of the internet (and my mischievous coworkers) decided my journalistic duty lay in attending a “weird sex ecstatic dance naked thing.” This particular assignment seemed to tick every box on my personal anxiety checklist: strangers, forced dancing, new-age therapies I don’t understand, repetitive trance music that sounds suspiciously like elevator music, a whiff of Burning Man hippie culture, and the pièce de résistance – optional nudity, specifically, the potential for men dance naked.
Was it truly worse than spending a weekend surrounded by gun enthusiasts? A question for the ages, perhaps. What I can definitively say is that this “Naked Bliss” dance, as it was euphemistically called, was for me, a solid 100 percent excruciating. My expectations for awkwardness were not only met but spectacularly exceeded. So, congratulations, Blogtown readers and my Mercury colleagues, you succeeded. You gifted me a genuine Worst. Night. Ever. And yes, a small part of me still harbors a grudge.
Navigating through the unfamiliar streets of Southwest Portland, armed with somewhat vague directions, I eventually arrived at a private residence. This was the designated location where a group of individuals – acquaintances? friends? future partners in nude dance? – were gathering for their regular bi-weekly session of uninhibited, clothing-optional movement. Let me preface this by acknowledging the undeniable charm of Southwest Portland. The winding roads, lush greenery, and overall tranquility were quite lovely, a stark contrast to the evening that awaited me.
Parking my car, I approached the house and was greeted by a man downstairs. It wouldn’t be long before I realized he would be one of the evening’s most enthusiastic participants in the men dance naked aspect of the event. “First time?” he inquired. Answering in the affirmative, I was instructed to remove my shoes and informed that the dance was taking place upstairs. As I slipped off my shoes, a friendly black dog, radiating an aura of calm and unconditional love, ambled over to greet me. This was one of those dogs, the kind that can effortlessly diffuse any stressful situation, even the looming prospect of witnessing men dance naked. For a blissful minute, petting this canine angel, my anxiety lessened. Then, duty called, and I ascended the stairs.
The host couple had transformed their upstairs living space into a surprisingly inviting yoga studio. Hardwood floors gleamed under soft lighting, and a bed, ingeniously hoisted to the ceiling by ropes, maximized the open space. One side of the room opened onto a charming outdoor deck, while two other walls were entirely composed of windows. It later struck me that these individuals either had incredibly tolerant neighbors or, perhaps more intriguingly, some of the neighbors were active participants in these men dance naked gatherings. A few early arrivals were already present, some lounging on the deck, indulging in what smelled suspiciously like marijuana – precisely what I didn’t need to be inhaling at that moment. An awkward silence hung in the air, and initiating introductions felt inappropriate. So, I stood there, a silent observer in a stranger’s home, the weight of my questionable life choices pressing down on me.
A discreet plate served as the collection point for the participation fee, a sliding scale of $10-15. Armed only with a twenty-dollar bill and no sign of readily available change, I reluctantly deposited the full amount. (Memo to Mercury accounting: expect an interesting expense report.) Music was already playing softly, and people were stretching, preparing their bodies for the impending men dance naked ritual.
For the uninitiated (as I certainly was), Ecstatic Dance is ostensibly a form of moving meditation. The purported goal is transcendence, an out-of-body experience achieved through rhythmic physical exertion. It’s about as “hippie-dippie” as an activity can get without involving crystals and aura readings (though, I wouldn’t have been surprised if those were on the post-dance agenda). Thankfully, verbal communication was discouraged, a small mercy. Any form of movement was deemed acceptable, meaning my usual concert dance repertoire – arms folded, foot tapping erratically, fingers drumming on my stomach, and involuntary hip swiveling – technically qualified. However, most attendees seemed to aim for a more… expressive style. Expect a lot of contortions, flamboyant gestures, and a surprising amount of pelvic thrusting, especially when men dance naked.
What distinguished this particular Ecstatic Dance gathering was its clothing-optional policy – apparently not standard for all such events. “Ours is a smaller space that tends to foster more intimacy and connection,” the organizers declared on their website. “Our dance tends to be more sensual than most other dances; you can dance topless or even fully nude if that is what is authentic for you in that moment.” Hooray? The promise of potential men dance naked scenarios loomed large.
The music swelled, and people began to move tentatively. The crowd was small but steadily growing, eventually reaching around twenty participants, with a noticeable male-to-female ratio of approximately 4:1. While the room was generously sized for a bedroom, it felt somewhat confined for twenty adults intent on expressive dance. Maintaining personal space, while not explicitly against the spirit of the event, required a degree of spatial awareness, especially as the prospect of men dance naked became more tangible.
I stood out, conspicuously, as one of the younger attendees. Most participants appeared to be in their fifties and sixties. There was one woman who I believe was younger than myself (and, objectively, quite lovely – is it inappropriate to mention that in this context?), but otherwise, the demographic leaned decidedly older. As the music continued and people started to move, a silent question formed in my mind: Is this it? Has it begun? Assuming it had, I attempted to engage, contorting my limbs awkwardly and inventing a signature dance move – the “tree rustling in the wind” – which I hoped would carry me through the night, or at least until the men dance naked portion commenced.
What felt like an eternity, but was probably closer to an hour, passed. Several men had progressed to varying degrees of undress, from shirtless to strategically underpants-clad, but full-frontal nudity remained, thankfully, absent. Okay, I thought, I can endure this. It’s not that terrible. Then, abruptly, the music stopped, and I realized that a mere ten minutes had elapsed. The preceding movements had been merely an informal warm-up. The actual dance hadn’t even officially started yet. The anticipation of men dance naked was still building.
We were instructed to form an “intention circle,” everyone joining hands to create a large ring. The female host made an announcement, vaguely outlining the dance’s “intention” – words like “spirit,” “freedom,” “feeling,” and “sensation” floated through the air. My immediate intention was to discreetly wipe my increasingly clammy palms on my pants, acutely aware of the sweaty hands of the grown men gripping mine on either side. Later, I realized the man to my right was sporting a see-through sarong and absolutely nothing else underneath. (He was not the only man embracing this level of sartorial freedom). The host also emphasized the importance of creating a “safe space,” outlining procedures for addressing any discomfort caused by another dancer’s movements and assuring us that unwanted aggressive behavior would not be tolerated. Thankfully, no such issues arose during the evening, at least not that I was aware of.
Then, the dance truly began. It resembled the warm-up, but amplified, more deliberate, more…intense. The music was loud but not offensively so, and I flailed about, attempting to dance and feign the pursuit of personal bliss. I couldn’t shake the feeling that at least one person in the room possessed the self-proclaimed ability to read auras. I was genuinely curious what they would discern from my aura at that precise moment. Would they detect my profound discomfort? Was my misery radiating outwards in a spectrum of sickly yellow and charcoal gray? Anyone with functioning eyes could likely deduce my emotional state simply by observing the strained expression plastered across my face.
My dance strategy primarily revolved around stretching. I decided to use this bizarre opportunity to address the persistent kinks in my back, the stiffness in my shoulders, the tightness in my sciatic nerves. My logic was simple: if any movement was acceptable, I might as well exploit the situation for some much-needed physical therapy. While I was likely the most conspicuously awkward participant, thankfully, no one paid me any undue attention. Perhaps witnessing awkward individuals was a regular occurrence in the world of men dance naked ecstatic dance.
In fact, the lack of judgment was, by far, the most positive aspect of the entire experience. There was no pressure to socialize, no judgmental stares directed at my clumsy movements. People simply allowed me to exist in my bubble of awkwardness. I suspected that at least a few attendees were aware of the Mercury poll that had thrust me into this situation, but if they were, they remained discreet. Later, it occurred to me that they probably encountered a steady stream of lonely, out-of-place individuals seeking refuge in these events, and that the overarching purpose was to provide a haven of acceptance and hospitality, even if that hospitality involved witnessing men dance naked.
But, Lord, was I uncomfortable. As the dance progressed, so did the level of nudity. For those craving statistical data, I estimate that two women were topless, while three or four of the men had embraced full nudity. Yes, there was a noticeable amount of exposed male genitalia. At no point did I feel compelled to fully disrobe myself, a considerable relief. But yes, there I was, surrounded by a group of mostly older, mostly naked men gyrating in close proximity. People would occasionally pause for water breaks, or to retreat to the deck for more herbal refreshment, but I knew that if I stopped, restarting would be an insurmountable task. I was determined to power through the entire dance without interruption. It required every ounce of willpower to resist the urge to flee down the stairs and drive far, far away.
It’s crucial to mention my deep-seated aversion to dancing to music I don’t enjoy. It’s my least favorite aspect of wedding receptions (closely followed by the obligation to wear formal attire). Dancing can be fun, under very specific circumstances: a couple of drinks, a truly exceptional live band. Rarely do I feel the urge to dance to recorded music, and when pressed, my preferences lean towards 60s R&B, or at the very least, something with a real drummer and bassist. (Snob? Perhaps. Do I care? Not particularly.) The playlist for this Ecstatic Dance was, to put it mildly, eclectic. Much of it consisted of the predictable new-age meditation music – ethereal, electronic, and utterly devoid of intensity. I didn’t recognize (or enjoy) any of it, nor could I recall any particularly memorable melodies. However, there were unexpected diversions, including tracks from Malian musicians – Tinariwen and Toumani Diabate, I believe. These were genuine musical highlights. And then, inexplicably, Rihanna’s “Pon de Replay” blasted through the speakers, a truly surreal moment amidst the men dance naked spectacle. There was also a cringe-inducing Faith Hill song with saccharine lyrics about self-affirmation (“I try to love Jesus and myself”) that effectively sucked the remaining energy out of the room.
As the evening wore on, the atmosphere grew increasingly bizarre and intense in ways difficult to articulate. The energy became palpably more sexual, and libidos were clearly being stimulated. While I witnessed no overt acts of intercourse, there was some making out, boob-grabbing, and crotch-grinding, and a plethora of dance moves that would have resulted in immediate expulsion from a junior high dance, even without the added element of nudity. The closest comparison I can draw is to a concert where the crowd reaches a fever pitch of frenzy. It’s a visceral, almost primal experience. I distinctly remember thinking, repeatedly, “Uh, this is possibly escalating beyond acceptable boundaries…” Still, no one attempted to touch me inappropriately, largely because I avoided eye contact with everyone. In fact, I spent a significant portion of the dance with my eyes closed, only to discover that this was a strategic error. Upon reopening them, the situation had become significantly nakeder. I continued my flailing, tree-in-the-wind dance, my enthusiasm waning with each passing minute. My discomfort, both physical and psychological, was profound. I achieved the level of nudity that felt “authentic” to me in that moment – which is to say, virtually none. Apologies to anyone expecting full journalistic commitment to the men dance naked cause.
I find myself conflicted in writing about this experience. On one hand, everyone present seemed genuinely kind, perhaps a touch eccentric, but this semi-naked bliss dance clearly held significant value for them. It was therapeutic, a release, something they anticipated and cherished. The absence of judgment was paramount. And there I was, an interloper sent by internet pranksters to disrupt their men dance naked sanctuary, to be the awkward outsider and then report back with humorous anecdotes, potentially ridiculing their unconventional practices. That doesn’t sit well with me. On the other hand, I was profoundly unhappy to be there. I was placed in a sexually charged environment against my will, in a setting where consensual participation is paramount. At no point did I become “okay” with being there. And when it ended, I felt no sense of catharsis or improvement. I felt…icky, and somewhat violated – not by the dancers themselves, but by the individuals who orchestrated my presence. That feeling persists. Did I completely miss the point of the exercise? Should I just shrug it off as “just another weird work assignment” and move on?
The dance concluded, after what felt like an eternity (more accurately, two hours). We reconvened in a circle, seated on cushions. We proceeded to share our individual experiences. The general consensus was that this had been a particularly potent session. I’m unsure what distinguished it from previous dances, but everyone seemed intensely energized. Some were radiant, others deeply relaxed. “I felt a lot of forgiveness,” the host woman shared. When my turn arrived, I was emotionally depleted and my nerves were frayed. I mumbled something vague about “facing new challenges and discovering new modes of expression.” Again, I encountered no judgment or skepticism from anyone in the circle.
The evening continued with a post-dance potluck, and while the hosts’ hot tub was, unfortunately, out of order, I gathered that it was usually the next stage in the evening’s progression. I can only speculate about the events that followed, but the atmosphere hinted at the potential for some form of group intimacy. Perhaps I’m projecting. But I was beyond ready to escape. I descended the stairs, put on my shoes, hoping my hasty departure wouldn’t be too conspicuous. No one else seemed inclined to leave. I kept my head down, anticipating someone calling out a goodbye. Silence. Grateful for the anonymity, I made my way to the door. The wonderful dog trotted over, and I gratefully offered a few parting pats. Dogs truly are effective stress relievers – that is a form of modern therapy I wholeheartedly endorse. (It didn’t occur to me until later that the dog might also be polyamorous. Ha, just kidding… mostly.) I exited the house and started my car.
It was, unequivocally, not a good night for me.
