Finally: Tenderly, shyly, slightly awkwardly we dare to dust off our sensors, extend our antennae, and come closer again – like snails and other beloved tentacular beings that remind us of a life lived in networks of interlaced trails and physical contact.

Coming closer opens manifold potentials. Someone wants me in their exclusive intimate bubble?! How flattering! What a beautiful request! So exciting, flirty, cheeky. When I invite you in, I prepare a hospitable space, so you can enter and feel welcome. It’s neither random, nor neutral. I care and I want you to come closer. Of course, you can say no. There are no obligations.
Still, despite longing for closeness, accepting the invitation might feel challenging. Moving closer means letting some guards down. Exposure. No longer keeping a safe distance. In proximity I become vulnerable. I can be observed in more detail, while, at the same time, our vision gets blurry if we get too close. Smells and sounds become more present, more intense. Is this bliss or is it just too much? Oh the challenges of human intimacy! At times our tender tentacular approaches can feel like the sharp spines of hedgehogs with their inherent dilemma: when it’s cold and they feel lonely they come closer for warmth and company. But then they can hurt each other with their spikes. So they move apart again. Safe and protected, but cold and alone.

Together we want to find the sweet spot in between, find beauty in the struggle of closeness and distance (and maybe also play around with the fun sensations of the scratchy spikes, the lovingly and consensually induced pain…).