Yoga Fire

I’ve decide to take on the Fit To Write, Weekly Writing Challenge.  Why?  Because my story will beat up your story.  Shall we?

The story takes place in 2007, when MySpace was hanging on to its last member and most of the world still had jobs.  My girlfriend at the time, attended a Yoga class at the Y which allowed her to bring one guest.  The cheerful invites to accompany her weekly routine was met with my common utters of “Next time babe” or “Do I have to?”  With each animated request, I could always see the growing pleeeease emanating from behind her sparkling eyes.  I am a sucker.   

I didn’t follow a recommended fitness or dietary regimen.  My workout sessions were surf, surf, more surf and then food.  The sessions were paced.  Relaxed.  I wasn’t out in the water to build up washboard abs.  I was out there to have fun.  Still do.  Yet, a hobby like that requires some level of strength and more so, a necessary reserve of endurance and dexterity.  Unless you are built with gills.  I’m not Kevin Costner, but because I am able to tolerate Hawaii’s turbulent ocean, I thought in my mind, I was fit.  Fit enough.

You know there’s gonna be plenty of girls there.  IN FACT it’s all girls, she said with a grin.  When I look back and recollect how she swindled me to attend that Yoga session, I can’t help but think  what a keeper she was.  Letting me ogle with no consequence.  Sincerely asking if I thought that, or that girl over there is pretty.  With simply hopes of affirmation.  Knowing that after all the comparing, ogling and window shopping I did,  I would be going home with her.  Yup.  That kind of girl.  5’2″ and full of confidence.

It is that sound.  The sound of just a small release of tension from a fully inflated balloon, resulting in a high pitched phhk.  That’s the sound that haunted my thoughts.

I was mentally present and my ex was right.  I walked from a gritty urban parking lot and stepped into pussy heaven.  Skin tight spandex filled the studio.  Many of the ladies glistened, coming from spinning or aerobics. The instructor was incredibly tone and smoking hot.  Delightfully busty with lean muscle layered over lean muscle.   She would pose, then monitored for proper position and always approached me to coax my body into cooperating.  I was stiff, without the pun.  My muscles was used to doing pushups on a flotation device, not putting my ankles behind my neck.  She gently contorted my frame.

I didn’t care that my that spleen ended up in my throat.  I didn’t care that attractive brunette left me pretzeled.  I didn’t care that George W. was in office.  I only cared about that sound bouncing in my head.  Because I know my ass.  I know the sounds my ass makes.  And because my lungs and kidneys switched places, the symphonic balloon was ready to play it’s opening note.  My ears rang.  My heart beated anxiously.  I tried to feel for it but I didn’t know where it was.  I think it was in my knee.  Till this day I have never been so uncomfortably aroused.

My only connection with Yoga before that class was Fire, Flame and Teleport.  Now, I have new respects for that discipline.  Thankfully, I managed to stay the organic production.  Also sparing my ego and the class.  But I took two things home that day.  An amused yet satisfied girlfriend and the knowledge that Yoga with all its difficulties,  is rewardingly humbling and one stretch away from an ass whistle.