Navigating the murky waters of online polls can lead you to unexpected shores, and mine landed me squarely in the middle of a “Naked Bliss dance”—an event billed by some as a form of “Dance For Sex.” Let me preface this by stating, my summer plans did not include exploring the intimate frontiers of ecstatic dance, let alone the clothing-optional variety. Yet, here I was, thanks to the internet’s whimsical selection process, venturing into a realm that tested every boundary of my comfort zone. The options presented were, shall we say, diverse, ranging from the politically charged to the profoundly peculiar. Avoiding the aforementioned gun enthusiast gathering felt like a minor victory, even if the alternative was, as my colleagues gleefully framed it, “the weird sex ecstatic dance naked thing.” This event seemed tailor-made to trigger my anxiety bingo card: strangers, awkward movements I wouldn’t dare call dance, the nebulous world of new-age practices, trance-inducing rhythms, and the ever-present specter of optional nudity. Was it truly a fate worse than a firearms convention? Perhaps not in terms of potential physical danger, but emotionally? For me, the Naked Bliss dance clocked in at a solid 100 percent excruciating, surpassing my most pessimistic expectations. Consider me thoroughly bummed, internet. And to my colleagues, congratulations, you successfully orchestrated my Worst. Night. Ever. Resentment? Perhaps a touch.
Armed with somewhat cryptic directions, I journeyed through the labyrinthine streets of Southwest Portland, eventually arriving at a discreet residence. This unassuming house was the bi-weekly rendezvous point for a group of individuals—acquaintances? Friends? Potential partners in dance, or perhaps more? They were gathering for an evening of shared, unclothed movement. Firstly, I must acknowledge the undeniable charm of Southwest Portland. Its winding roads, lush greenery, and tranquil ambiance are genuinely appealing.
Parking nearby, I approached the house and was greeted by a man who, it turned out, would later be among the vanguard of nudity that evening. “First time?” he inquired. Affirming his suspicion, I was directed to remove my shoes and ascend to the dance space upstairs. As I complied, a friendly black dog materialized, offering a silent, tail-wagging welcome. This canine companion was the epitome of canine perfection—calm, gentle, and radiating an aura of universal goodwill. For a fleeting moment, petting this delightful creature eased my burgeoning nervousness. Then, duty (or morbid curiosity) beckoned, and I proceeded upstairs.
The hosts had transformed their upper room into a serene, yoga-esque sanctuary. Hardwood floors gleamed under the soft light, and a bed, ingeniously hoisted to the ceiling, maximized the open space. One wall opened onto a balcony, while two others were predominantly glass, offering generous views. (Later, the thought of the neighbors’ potential vantage point crossed my mind. Even later, the even more unsettling possibility that some neighbors were participating in the dance arose.) A few early arrivals were already present, some indulging in pre-dance cannabis on the deck—ironically, the last thing my anxiety-ridden self desired at that moment. Silence permeated the air; introductions seemed premature, or perhaps unwelcome. So I stood, a silent observer in a stranger’s home, adrift in uncertainty, contemplating the unfolding evening.
A discreet plate served as the collection point for the sliding-scale fee of $10-15. My wallet yielded only a twenty-dollar bill, and lacking smaller denominations, I deposited the entire amount. (To the Mercury finance department: expect an interesting expense report.) Music played softly, and attendees began stretching, preparing their bodies for the impending… dance? Experience?
Perhaps a brief explanation of Ecstatic Dance is warranted, as my prior knowledge was, shall we say, limited. It’s purportedly a form of moving meditation, aiming for transcendence and an altered state of consciousness through physical expression. Hippie-dippie? Undeniably. Verbal communication is discouraged, a blessing in my introverted state, but any movement is deemed acceptable. This theoretically sanctioned my usual concert dance repertoire: arms rigidly at my sides, foot tapping erratically, fingers drumming on my leg, and the subtle, involuntary pelvic sway. However, most participants tended towards more… expansive interpretations of movement. Think dramatic contortions, exuberant leaps, and, yes, a considerable amount of pelvic thrusting.
What distinguished this particular Ecstatic Dance was its clothing-optional policy—apparently not standard for all such gatherings. “Our smaller space fosters intimacy and connection,” the organizers’ website proclaimed. “Our dance tends to be more sensual than most; you can dance topless or fully nude if that feels authentic.” Joy? Dread? A confusing blend of both.
The music swelled, and tentative movements began to ripple through the room. The gathering was intimate, gradually growing to around twenty individuals, with a somewhat skewed gender ratio of roughly four men to every woman. While the space was generously sized for a bedroom, twenty moving bodies felt… cozy. Asserting personal space seemed antithetical to the event’s ethos, yet spatial awareness was undeniably necessary.
I stood out, conspicuously younger than the majority. Most attendees appeared to be in their fifties and sixties. One woman seemed younger than myself (and, objectively, quite attractive—is noting this inappropriate?), but otherwise, the demographic skewed older. As the music filled the room and bodies began to sway, the internal question arose: Is this it? Has it begun? Assuming the affirmative, I attempted to participate, contorting awkwardly and improvising a signature move—arms outstretched, swaying like a “tree rustling in the wind.” This, I decided, would be my survival strategy for the duration.
What felt like an eternity, but was likely closer to ten minutes, passed in this manner. Several men had progressed to varying degrees of undress, ranging from shirtless to underwear-clad, though full nudity remained, for the moment, unattained. Okay, I thought, I can endure this. It’s not utterly horrific. Then, the music ceased, and I realized this had merely been a pre-dance warm-up. The main event had yet to commence.
We convened in an “intention circle,” joining hands to form a human ring. The female host addressed us, vaguely articulating the dance’s “intention”—words about spirits, liberation, sensation, and feeling. My inner monologue fixated on the increasingly clammy state of my palms, intertwined with the hands of strangers. Only later did I register that the man to my right was clad solely in a see-through sarong. And nothing else. (He was not alone in this sartorial choice.) The host also emphasized boundaries and consent, assuring us of a “safe space” where unwanted advances would not be tolerated. To the evening’s credit, this assurance proved true; no such incidents arose, at least to my awareness.
Then, the dance truly began. It was the warm-up, amplified. More intense, more deliberate. The music, loud but not jarring, enveloped the room. I stumbled through movements, feigning an earnest pursuit of personal bliss. My mind drifted to the possibility of aura readers in the room, wondering what vibrant hues my discomfort might be radiating. Sickly yellow? Ominous charcoal gray? A simple glance at my face would likely suffice for an accurate diagnosis.
My dance strategy morphed into functional stretching, an attempt to alleviate the physical manifestations of my anxiety—knots in my back, stiffness in my shoulders, tightness in my hamstrings. If any movement was permissible, therapeutic contortion seemed a justifiable choice. My awkwardness likely remained conspicuous, but blessedly, no one seemed to notice, or at least, no one acknowledged it.
This, in fact, was the unexpected silver lining of the experience. An absence of judgment. No forced interactions. People simply allowed me to exist in my discomfort, offering neither confrontation nor curious glances at my palpable unease. I suspected, perhaps paranoically, that some might be aware of the Mercury poll that had propelled me into this situation. Yet, if so, none betrayed any knowledge. Later, I reasoned that they were probably accustomed to a diverse clientele of socially awkward individuals, and that the underlying purpose was to provide a haven of acceptance and hospitality.
Still, discomfort remained my dominant emotion. As the dance progressed, so did the disrobing. For statistical purposes, I estimate two women were topless, and three or four men embraced full nudity. Yes, there was a notable quantity of exposed genitalia. Relief washed over me as I realized complete disrobement was not mandatory. However, the visual of older, naked men gyrating in close proximity was… a lot. Breaks were taken for hydration, balcony cannabis sessions, or unspecified reasons, but stopping felt impossible for me. Pausing meant risking a complete and utter inability to restart. Survival mode dictated continuous, uninterrupted movement, even if that movement resembled a distressed tree in a hurricane. The urge to flee was powerful.
It’s relevant to mention my aversion to dancing to music I dislike. It’s a significant drawback of weddings (along with formal attire). Dancing can be enjoyable, but requires a specific confluence of factors: alcohol consumption, and a truly exceptional band. Dancing to recorded music is a rarity for me, and if pressed, my preferences lean towards 60s R&B, or at least, music with actual drums and bass. (Snobbery? Perhaps. Apologies? None.) The Ecstatic Dance playlist was… eclectic. Predictably, it included new-age meditation-friendly tracks: ethereal, electronic, and generally low-intensity. None were recognizable or particularly memorable. However, unexpected gems emerged: Malian musicians—Tinariwen and Toumani Diabate, I believe. These were undeniable musical highlights. Then, inexplicably, Rihanna’s “Pon de Replay” infiltrated the mix, a bizarre sonic curveball. And then, a truly soul-crushing Faith Hill song with saccharine lyrics of self-affirmation (“I try to love Jesus and myself”) effectively extinguished any remaining dance party embers.
As the evening deepened, the atmosphere intensified, becoming progressively stranger and more overtly sensual. Libidos, undeniably, were being activated. While overt sexual acts remained absent, making out, breast grabbing, and crotch grinding became more prevalent. Dance moves escalated beyond junior prom appropriateness, even discounting the nudity factor. The closest analogy is a concert where the crowd reaches a fever pitch of collective energy. Indescribable, but palpable. A recurring thought surfaced: “This is escalating rapidly…” Yet, personal boundaries remained intact; no unwanted physical contact occurred, largely due to my steadfast avoidance of eye contact. Closing my eyes felt like a strategic retreat, until reopening them revealed an even more naked reality. My “tree in the wind” dance continued, fueled by limited enthusiasm and profound discomfort. My level of nudity remained firmly minimal, aligning, perhaps, with my “authentic” level of comfort. Apologies for any disappointment.
Writing about this experience presents a conflict. On one hand, the participants seemed genuinely kind, if somewhat eccentric. This semi-naked bliss dance appeared not merely pleasurable, but meaningful. Therapeutic. Something anticipated and valued. The emphasis on non-judgmental acceptance was paramount. And here I was, a pawn in an internet prank, crashing their intimate gathering, a gawking outsider, poised to recount my “hilarious” observations, potentially ridiculing their unconventional practices. That feels… wrong. Conversely, my personal experience was profoundly negative. I was placed in a sexually charged environment against my will, in a context where consensual participation is fundamental. “Okay-ness” never materialized. And upon departure, no sense of catharsis or enlightenment emerged. Instead, a lingering sense of unease, a feeling of violation—not by the dancers, but by those who engineered my presence there. That feeling persists. Did I fundamentally miss the point? Should I dismiss it as “just another weird job assignment” and move on?
The dance concluded after what felt like hours (closer to two), and we re-formed the circle, settling onto pillows. We shared our experiences in turn. The consensus was that this session was particularly potent, unusually charged. Some glowed with post-dance euphoria, others radiated serene relaxation. “I felt a lot of forgiveness,” the host shared. When my turn arrived, exhaustion and frayed nerves rendered me monosyllabic. I mumbled something about “facing new challenges and finding new modes of expression.” Again, no judgment, no suspicion. Only acceptance.
The evening extended into a post-dance potluck. While the hot tub was, alas, out of service, I gathered it was a typical post-dance destination. The atmosphere hinted at an impending group intimacy, perhaps even amorous encounters. Perhaps I’m projecting. But escape was my priority. Descending the stairs, I retrieved my shoes, hoping my early departure would be inconspicuous. No one seemed poised to leave. Head down, I waited for a farewell, a word, anything. Silence. Grateful, I slipped out. The wonderful dog padded over, receiving a final, stress-relieving pat. Dogs truly are therapeutic—a form of modern therapy I wholeheartedly endorse. (The belated thought: perhaps the dog was polyamorous too. Ha. Joke?) I exited, started the car, and drove away.
It was, unequivocally, not a good night for me.
