It wasn’t my intention to become the internet’s spectacle for a “Worst. Night. Ever” challenge, but fate, or rather, a reader poll, had other plans. My colleagues, with a mischievous glint in their eyes, presented a trio of truly cringe-worthy options, each seemingly more uncomfortable than the last. Truth be told, dodging the gun enthusiast convention felt like a minor victory. Instead, the internet, in its infinite wisdom, decided to send me to a “weird sex ecstatic dance naked thing.” This option seemed to tick every box on my anxiety checklist: strangers, dancing, new-age practices, repetitive trance music, a whiff of Burning Man culture, and the looming specter of optional nudity. Was it truly worse than a gun convention? A debatable point. However, I can unequivocally state that this Naked Bliss dance was, for me, an exercise in excruciating discomfort, surpassing even my most pessimistic expectations. So, thank you, internet denizens and my dear colleagues at the Mercury; you gifted me a genuine Worst. Night. Ever. And yes, a part of me harbors a playful resentment.
Following somewhat cryptic directions, I navigated unfamiliar streets after work, eventually arriving at a private residence. This was the gathering point for a group of… well, strangers? Friends? Potential future intimate partners? All converging for their bi-weekly session of naked dance revelry. Let me preface this by acknowledging the undeniable charm of Southwest Portland. The winding roads, lush greenery, and overall tranquility were quite appealing.
Parking my car, I approached the house. A man greeted me downstairs, who I would later learn was one of the more uninhibited participants in terms of clothing. “First time?” he inquired. Upon my affirmative nod, he directed me to remove my shoes and indicated that the dance was taking place upstairs. As I slipped off my shoes, a black dog, exuding an aura of calm and sweetness, ambled over to greet me. This was one of those exceptional dogs capable of instantly improving any situation, and it graciously allowed me to pet it, temporarily easing my burgeoning nervousness. Then, I ascended the stairs.
The host couple had transformed their upstairs room into a serene and clean yoga studio. Hardwood floors gleamed under soft lighting, and a bed was ingeniously hoisted to the ceiling with ropes, maximizing the dance space. One side of the room opened onto a spacious outdoor deck, while two other walls were predominantly windows. (Later, the thought occurred to me that their neighbors must be exceptionally tolerant. Even later, it dawned on me that perhaps some of the neighbors were participating in the dance.) A few individuals had already arrived, some of whom were on the deck, partaking in cannabis consumption – the absolute last thing I desired in my current state of apprehension. No one verbally acknowledged my arrival, which, in my anxious state, was perfectly acceptable. Introducing myself felt inappropriate in this silent, liminal space. So, I stood there, awkwardly milling about in a stranger’s home, waiting, and increasingly questioning my life choices.
A designated plate served as the collection point for the participation fee, a sliding scale of $10-15. Finding myself with only a twenty-dollar bill and no smaller denominations in the bowl, I reluctantly deposited the full amount. (To the Mercury accounting department: prepare for my expense report.) Ambient music was already playing, and people were engaging in stretches and settling into the space.
Perhaps it’s pertinent to elucidate the concept of Ecstatic Dance for those unfamiliar (as I was). Essentially, it’s presented as a form of meditation through movement, aiming for transcendence and a detachment from the conscious mind. It’s about as deeply entrenched in hippie-dippie culture as an activity can get. Verbal communication is discouraged, thankfully, but any form of movement is deemed acceptable. This meant that my typical concert dance repertoire (arms folded, foot tapping errhythmically, fingers drumming on my stomach, subconscious hip swiveling) was technically permissible. However, most participants tended to escalate things considerably. Expect to witness a lot of contortions, exuberant movements, and a noticeable amount of pelvic thrusting.
What distinguished this particular Ecstatic Dance gathering was its clothing-optional policy – apparently not a universal feature of Ecstatic Dance events. “Our smaller space tends to cultivate more intimacy and connection,” the organizers stated on their website. “Our dance tends to be more sensual than most other dances; you are welcome to dance topless or even fully nude if that aligns with your authentic self in that moment.” Joy.
The music continued to play, and people gradually began to move. The crowd was small initially but steadily grew, eventually reaching around twenty participants, with a somewhat skewed gender ratio of approximately four men to every woman. While the room was generously sized for a bedroom, it felt somewhat confined for twenty dancing adults. While asserting personal space wasn’t exactly in the spirit of the event, spatial awareness was necessary to avoid accidental collisions.
I was conspicuously among the younger attendees; most participants appeared to be in their fifties and sixties. There was one woman who was undoubtedly younger than myself (and, it must be noted, quite attractive – is it inappropriate to mention that?), but otherwise, the demographic skewed older. As mentioned, music was playing, and the initial dancers were beginning to move. Is this it? I wondered internally. Has it commenced? Assuming it had, I attempted to engage as best I could, awkwardly contorting and inventing a tentative outstretched-arms dance move that would become my default for the duration of the night: the “tree rustling in the wind.”
What felt like an eternity passed, though in reality, it was probably closer to ten minutes. Several men had progressed to varying degrees of undress, some shirtless, others in underwear, but full nudity was yet to be unveiled. Okay, I reasoned with myself, I can endure this. It’s not utterly unbearable. Then, abruptly, the music ceased, and I realized that this had merely been an informal warm-up. The actual dance hadn’t even officially started.
We transitioned into an “intention circle,” everyone joining hands to form a large ring. The hostess made an announcement, vaguely outlining the dance’s “intention” – the specifics are now hazy, but I recall keywords like spirits, freedom, and sensation. My primary focus was on the increasing clamminess of my palms, particularly where they were in contact with the hands of the gentlemen flanking me. Later, I became aware that the man to my right was clad solely in a see-through sarong. (He was not an outlier in his sartorial choices). The hostess also emphasized protocols for addressing discomfort caused by another person’s dancing, reiterating that this was a safe space and that aggressive or unwanted behavior would not be tolerated. Throughout the evening, no such issues arose, at least to my direct knowledge.
And then the dance truly began. It resembled the warm-up, but amplified, more deliberate. The music volume increased, but remained within tolerable limits. I fumbled through the movements, dancing and feigning a pursuit of personal bliss. I couldn’t shake the feeling that at least one person present possessed the ability to perceive auras, and I became morbidly curious about their potential interpretation of my aura in that moment. Would they detect my profound discomfort? Was my misery radiating outwards in a spectrum of sickly hues? Perhaps a bilious yellow, or a somber charcoal grey? Anyone observing my facial expression could likely deduce the same conclusion without resorting to metaphysical readings.
My dance strategy largely revolved around stretching and physical maintenance – working out back kinks, loosening stiff shoulders, and addressing sciatic nerve tightness. My rationale was simple: if any movement is permissible, I might as well utilize this time for physical therapy. I was likely more conspicuously awkward than the majority of participants, but thankfully, no one seemed to pay me undue attention.
In fact, the lack of judgment and forced social interaction was the most redeeming aspect of the experience. People simply allowed me to exist, unburdened by scrutiny or unsolicited engagement, despite my palpable awkwardness and discomfort. I suspected that at least a few might be aware of the Mercury poll that had orchestrated my presence, but if so, they remained discreet. It later occurred to me that they probably routinely encountered individuals like myself – lonely, somewhat out-of-place, and seeking connection, and that the event served as a haven of acceptance and hospitality.
Yet, my discomfort was unwavering. As the dance progressed, so did the level of undress. For the sake of statistical accuracy, I’d estimate that two women were topless, while three or four men achieved full nudity. There was a considerable amount of exposed male genitalia. At no point did I feel pressured to disrobe myself, which was a significant relief. However, the visual of numerous older, naked men gyrating in close proximity was… intense. People periodically took breaks for water, outdoor cannabis consumption, or other undisclosed reasons. But I knew that if I paused, restarting would be an insurmountable task. I resolved to power through the entire dance without interruption. It required considerable effort to suppress the urge to flee down the stairs and escape in my car.
It’s worth noting my aversion to dancing to music I dislike. It’s a significant drawback of wedding receptions (along with formal attire). Dancing can be enjoyable, but requires a prerequisite level of alcohol consumption and a band that is genuinely exceptional. Spontaneous dancing to recorded music is rare for me, and if compelled, I gravitate towards 1960s R&B, or at least something with a live drummer and bassist. (Snobbery? Perhaps. Indifference? Absolutely not.) The playlist for this Ecstatic Dance was eclectic, to say the least. Much of it consisted of predictable new-age meditation music – ethereal, electronic, and low-intensity. I didn’t recognize (or particularly enjoy) any of it, nor did any tracks leave a lasting impression. However, there were unexpected detours, including tracks from Malian musicians – Tinariwen and Toumani Diabate, I believe. These were musical highlights, and I appreciated their inclusion. Then, inexplicably, Rihanna’s “Pon de Replay” surfaced, which felt bizarrely out of place. There was also a saccharine Faith Hill song with overtly sentimental lyrics (“I try to love Jesus and myself”) that effectively deflated the dance party atmosphere.
As the evening deepened, the experience became progressively stranger and more intense in ways that defy precise articulation. The atmosphere palpably shifted, becoming more overtly physical, and a noticeable elevation in libido was palpable. While overt sexual acts weren’t observed, there was making out, suggestive touching, and crotch grinding, accompanied by dance moves that would have warranted expulsion from a high school prom, even without the nudity. The closest analogy is a concert where the crowd reaches a fever pitch of collective frenzy. It’s an intangible phenomenon, but undeniable. I repeatedly thought to myself, “Uh, this might be escalating beyond comfortable boundaries…” Despite the heightened sensuality, no one directly encroached on my personal space, largely due to my consistent avoidance of eye contact. In fact, I resorted to closing my eyes for extended periods, only to discover that this strategy backfired; upon reopening them, the level of nudity had noticeably increased. I continued my minimal “tree in the wind” flailing, but my distress and discomfort remained profound. I adopted a level of undress that felt “authentic for me in that moment” – which is to say, barely undressed at all. Apologies for any disappointment.
I find myself conflicted in writing about this experience. On one hand, everyone present seemed genuinely kind, perhaps a touch eccentric, but this partially naked bliss dance appeared to be not merely enjoyable, but genuinely meaningful to them. It served a therapeutic purpose. It was something they anticipated and valued. And the absence of judgment was clearly paramount. Yet, here I was, dispatched by internet pranksters to infiltrate their intimate gathering, a clumsy outsider crashing their naked dance party, tasked with reporting back my supposedly humorous observations, potentially trivializing their unconventional but meaningful practices. This prospect doesn’t sit well with me. Conversely, my personal experience was deeply unpleasant. I was placed in a sexually charged environment against my volition – one where consensual participation is fundamental. At no point did I achieve a state of “okay-ness.” And upon its conclusion, I felt no sense of relief or catharsis. I felt… icky, and somewhat violated – not by the dancers themselves, but by those who orchestrated my presence. That feeling persists. Did I fundamentally misunderstand the point? Should I simply categorize this as “just another bizarre work assignment” and move on?
The dance concluded after what felt like hours (more accurately, two), and we reconvened in a circle, seated on pillows. We proceeded to share our individual experiences. The prevailing sentiment was that this session had been particularly impactful – the specific catalyst remained unclear, but a collective sense of heightened energy was palpable. Some individuals radiated a visible glow, others appeared deeply relaxed. “I felt a profound sense of forgiveness,” the hostess shared. When my turn arrived, I was emotionally and physically depleted. I mumbled something about “Tonight being about confronting new challenges and discovering new modes of expression.” Again, no hint of judgment or suspicion emanated from the circle.
The evening continued – a post-dance potluck was imminent, and although the hot tub was out of order, I gathered that it was typically a subsequent destination. The trajectory of the night felt poised to transition into some form of communal, amorous experience. Perhaps I’m projecting. But I was overwhelmingly ready to depart. I descended the stairs, put on my shoes, hoping my early exit wouldn’t be too conspicuous. No one else seemed inclined to leave. I kept my gaze averted, bracing for a farewell or acknowledgment. None came, for which I was grateful. The wonderful dog trotted over, and I gratefully offered a few parting pats. Dogs truly are masters of stress reduction – 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, a joke!) I exited the house and started my car.
It was, unequivocally, not a good night for me.
