Your bag is empty.
Chris calls it a heart desert.
It’s the only way he can describe what it feels like to be alone; to want physical connection beyond a hug from a friend that isn’t casual sex. When he Facetimes me from his car after work, he’s quickly teary-eyed talking about this very specific ache.
After a devastating breakup with the woman he thought he’d marry, the New Hampshire native found himself lonely, heartbroken and, as he puts it, touch-starved. Your heart is craving and longing for connection,” he says, “to know that you’re not alone in this world.”
What he misses isn’t sex. If anything, he’s suspicious of how often men are told sex should be enough. Instead, he talks about affection, closeness and being held. Sometimes, all it takes is someone placing a hand on his shoulder. “I forgot how much I needed that,” he says. He’s hardly alone. In recent years, researchers and mental health experts have sounded the alarm about rising loneliness, especially among men. In 2023, former U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy declared loneliness a public health epidemic, noting that roughly half of American adults report experiencing measurable loneliness.
As dating grows more fragmented and social connection harder to find, some are turning to an unlikely paid solution. For some men, the loneliness eventually leads them to professional cuddling. But what they’re paying for isn’t what you might expect: They aren’t paying for sex of any kind, or even dates. On paper, they’re paying for cuddles. In reality, they’re paying for something much harder to find.
More than a hug
The modern cuddle economy began with a handful of platonic cuddle parties in New York City back in 2004. Twenty years later, it’s become a bona fide profession, with organizations like Cuddlist and Cuddle Sanctuary pairing trained cuddlers with clients looking for human connection. When people seek out professional cuddler Jana Rose Merten, they rarely arrive saying they just need a hug. “Something [usually] feels depleted or dysfunctional in their life,” she says.
Some come after breakups. Others are recovering from isolation or simply crave companionship. At its core, Merten says, clients are looking for “a connection where they can simply be themselves and know they’re truly accepted.”
That’s why she bristles at the idea that professional cuddling is simply about hugging. “It really provides so much more than that,” she says. While sessions can include platonic touch, they also become spaces for companionship, emotional support, and practicing communication and boundaries.
But not every client arrives at professional cuddling from a place of loneliness. One 41-year-old IT worker from the Washington, D.C. area says he sought out the service despite being happy with his life and finances. “Life was actually great,” he says, “but I missed the physical touch and connection with a woman.”
“Cuddling is quick with clear expectations,” he says, describing the sessions as a simpler alternative to pursuing a romantic relationship. He’s not interested in dating right now, just the “spiritual lift” of a good snuggle.
One of Merten’s longtime clients, Nick, a 41-year-old IT professional from Minnesota, has been seeing her for nearly six years. He first sought out services with Merten during the COVID lockdowns when, like many people, he initially believed he’d enjoy solitude. He considered himself introverted and often found socializing exhausting. But after months of living alone with little physical contact, he discovered something surprising.
“Being introverted didn’t mean I didn’t need connection,” he says. “It just meant I needed the right kind of connection.”
He wasn’t looking for sex. He wasn’t even necessarily looking for romance. “What I missed was simple human closeness,” he says. “Being able to sit with someone, talk, laugh, hug, cuddle and feel connected to another person.”
The first time they met, they didn’t cuddle at all. They simply talked. That conversation changed his perception of the service. “I felt deeply accepted,” he says. “I didn’t have to pretend to be more confident than I was or minimize what I needed.”
Beyond loneliness
Professional cuddling is often dismissed as a substitute for “real” connection, but the men I spoke to describe something more nuanced. It’s a temporary bridge through loneliness for some; for others, it’s a form of connection in its own right.
Nick falls firmly into the latter camp. “It wasn’t a substitute for friendship [or] a romantic relationship,” he says. “It was its own unique kind of relationship.”
Over the years, he says the lessons extended far beyond cuddling itself. Through his experiences, he learned about consent, boundaries, communication and emotional regulation. “I don’t think [it] gave me connection,” he says. “I think it helped teach me what healthy connection looks like.”
But Chris sees things a little differently. He hasn’t employed a professional cuddler, nor has he stopped looking for safe, platonic touch. He’s open to the idea of a cuddler, but he still struggles with what their existence says about modern life. “The fact that it exists is a clear indication that there’s something wrong,” he says.
Not with the people seeking it, he clarifies, but with a culture that leaves so many of us hungry for touch in the first place.
As our conversation winds down, Chris returns to the idea of the heart desert. He knows a cuddle session won’t solve loneliness or replace the relationship he’s ultimately searching for. “People shouldn’t be hard on themselves,” he says. “Just because they’re having a hard time finding someone right now doesn’t mean that person’s not going to pop up.”
Maybe that’s the real appeal of professional cuddling. Not that it promises to cure loneliness, but that it offers temporary relief from it—and permission to admit that being touched, held and cared for isn’t a weakness. It’s human.