Cuddles: Less Techno, More Tongue

Berlin’s nightlife didn’t need another faceless warehouse marathon. It needed somewhere people could go and turn on their feelings to max without feeling cringe. Cuddles decided to skip the performance of Berlin's emotional minimalism and go straight for the real thing — a queer party that smells like sweat, tequila, and bad decisions, where chaos is less of a breakdown and more freedom full of affection.

Started by Eric and Greg, two lovers who met somewhere between the darkroom and the design studio, Cuddles isn’t interested in exclusivity, hierarchy, or how often you get guestlist and skips the line. It’s about connection — the kind that’s sticky, playful, sometimes awkward, but always sincere.Think of it as a collective experiment in queer tenderness disguised as a rave.

We spoke with the duo about kink as community-building, Berlin’s exhausting coolness complex, and why the best parties are the ones where the electricity might blow.

Cuddles grew out of our actual desires: sweaty, absurd, sincere, and slightly depraved.

What’s the story behind “Cuddles”? Was there a moment, a track, a person, or something else that made you decide to start it?

The name had to reflect what we actually wanted from a night out: connection, warmth, care — the opposite of Berlin’s emotional minimalism.

To cuddle means “to hold someone in a loving way.” It’s simple, almost naive, which is what we loved about it. We’ve both lived here long enough to see how nightlife turned into a competition for who can care the least. We wanted to do something different — a space that still had killer music but where people looked at each other like they meant it.

The dogs on the posters came from when we used to play owner and pup and wander through clubs on a leash.

What did each of you (Eric & Greg) bring into the mix when forming Cuddles? Any fights over colors, genres, dress codes?

Constantly. We’re both stubborn and we’re a couple, so the creative process is basically foreplay with deadlines.

Greg is chaos in a human body — impulsive, loud, a Scorpio with too many tabs open.

Eric brings the structure: he’s the fashion-trained control freak who makes sure things actually happen.

Together it’s a blend of precision and destruction. The result is what you see on the dancefloor — unhinged, but still somehow elegant.

What was missing in the scene that made Cuddles necessary?

The cult of “cool.” That unspoken Berlin rule that you have to look bored to prove you’re having fun.

We wanted a place where people could actually feel something — or at least pretend better.

It was a disaster and a success at the same time — so basically perfect.

When was the first Cuddles, and what was it like?

The first one was in a DIY warehouse in February 2024. It was bedlam. Someone short-circuited the electricity with sweat. People were dancing on pipes, kissing strangers, maybe themselves.

It was a disaster and a success at the same time — so basically perfect.

How did your own queer and flirt lives shape what Cuddles became? Which fantasies or kinks are built into the DNA of the party?

It started with us, honestly. The dogs on the posters came from when we used to play owner and pup and wander through clubs on a leash.

Eric’s ideal party lives somewhere between a 90s Hacienda warehouse and a tantric workshop gone wrong.

Greg’s a self-proclaimed darkroom architect.

Cuddles grew out of our actual desires: sweaty, absurd, sincere, and slightly depraved.

It’s not about what’s “underground.” It’s about what makes someone’s eyes close mid-dance.

You call Cuddles “genre-fluid.” What does that mean, musically and emotionally?

It means we don’t care about genres, we care about feelings.

The music is queer because the people behind it are — so you’ll hear house, bass, reggaeton, UKG, pop edits, and things that shouldn’t work but do.

It’s not about what’s “underground.” It’s about what makes someone’s eyes close mid-dance.

Camp attitude: what’s the campiest moment so far?

When Margo XS jumped on stage with Kim Petras. Everyone screamed, and for a second it felt like Berlin discovered joy again.

Naked bodies, sweat dripping from the ceiling, people crying and laughing at once

What’s your favorite sweaty, post-sunrise memory?

The closings. Always. Naked bodies, sweat dripping from the ceiling, people crying and laughing at once. It’s the kind of queer communion that no wellness retreat can touch.

Flirting seems to be part of the Cuddles DNA. What are the unspoken rules?

Flirting is mandatory. Consent is holy.

We want people to play, to connect, but to do it with care. It’s not about sex — it’s about curiosity.

Flirting is mandatory. Consent is holy.

How do visuals and design play into the world of Cuddles?

Everything you see comes from us. We make the visuals by hand — literal paper collages, tape, glue, scissors.

It’s tactile and imperfect, which fits the vibe. Queerness isn’t polished, it’s patched together and alive.

Queer chaos for us means saying no to perfection, no to binaries, no to acting normal.

What does “queer chaos” mean to you?

It’s saying no to perfection, no to binaries, no to acting normal.

It’s about showing up as your full, weird self and knowing that’s the hottest thing you can do.

How do you keep Cuddles from becoming “just another Berlin party”?

By making it about real people. This isn’t a brand, it’s our lives — the joy, the struggle, the community. People can feel that. It’s messy, but it’s honest.

We don’t curate identities; we curate energy

Who’s welcome on your dancefloor?

Everyone. Dykes, dolls, gays, femmes, mascs, and everyone in between. We don’t curate identities; we curate energy.

Berlin has this “hardcore” fetish vibe that isn't alwasy educated in BDSM. How do you balance that with care and consent?

Berlin’s idea of “hardcore” often comes with no emotional responsibility. People want the fantasy without the ethics.

At Cuddles, we want both. It’s wild, but it’s not careless. That balance — between chaos and care — is the point.

How do you choose your DJs and performers?

Simple rule: would we go to this party?

We book people who make us feel something — not just who make the right crowd move.

Energy over status, emotion over hype.

If Cuddles were a scent, what would it be?

Wet fur, tequila, and bad decisions.

What’s next?

We’re taking Cuddles abroad soon. Maybe a label, maybe a 24-hour party. Probably both. Either way, we’ll need new leashes.

Final line:

Cuddles proves that Berlin doesn’t need more rules — just better excuses to lose them.