Cigarettes & Yoga
Cigarettes & Yoga
They think they can turn the clock back, Michael thought as he stood calm and poised and ready for the session. He saw the room full of men and women, mostly women, psyching themselves up for the tough 90 minutes ahead. They think that if they exercise like mad now, maybe they can do without the cosmetic surgery later and stave off decay. To be honest, he reflected, yoga teachers do look good, there’s no denying it. Their bodies are taut and lean, but they don’t look younger or maybe they do, by a few years perhaps, but not considerably and besides it’s of no use to anyone. His mind wandered back to the old guys he saw running towards him in the park in the mornings. He could barely mask his disdain as they crossed on the Heath. So what that they are well preserved and don’t have much of a paunch, are tanned and their balding grey hair is well trimmed. Maybe they are 60, but look 55. So what? What they want to look, and be, is 35 at the most, and that’s just one illusion too far, it simply can’t be achieved. So what that Cliff Richard has dark hair, good teeth and doesn’t look 70? What’s that meant to make him? More attractive? To whom exactly? It’s not just about attraction of course, Michael knew that: it’s about being healthy and living longer. But for what? To go mountain biking in Peru’. And why? Because they didn’t get it together to do so in their 20s or 30s, or even 40s? Or they couldn’t afford it then, or hadn’t read about it in the Sunday papers supplements. Was that meant now to be some kind of competition to their grand kids? Grandpa went to Macchu Picchu. So what?
Quickly Michael’s thoughts reverted to a more familiar leit-motif. ‘I’d like to see my dick slide in and out of a black girl’s c unt, see that contrast between the rare-steak pink of the inside of her vulva and the surrounding area. That would definitely be my set up in the “Unlimited-length porn video in the sky” he thought, with various nationalities and sizes, if not ages, just to see what feels best instantly. To go against the stereotype of what I think I like. Michael liked porn, because the best thing about it was that those women don’t talk. There’s no ‘what did you do today, what are you going to do tomorrow and what will you be doing next week? And can I please come with’. None of that, just ‘Mmh’ and ‘Yeah baby’; he hardly registered the cheesy music.
In the studio he got variety for sure, though this was considered athletic yoga for hard nuts, none of that breathing and relaxing stuff, and so the composition of the class had a few too many men for his liking. Michael took in the large room, with the bright lights shining inside the panels on the ceiling, giving the illusion of constant daytime. Few people brought their own mat, so it didn’t stink, in a different colour from the standard and now very thin blue rubber. That was considered a bit too show off-y and girlie. None of the guys bothered and somehow putting up with stinking old mats added to the atmosphere of boot camp. “I love the smell of stale sweat in the morning” he said to himself to adjust to it every time he stepped in. Same for the towels probably, very few people opted to get two, using the one they’d drenched earlier in class for their shower, thus saving £1.
For most people the Monday and Tuesday evening classes were to be avoided. They were too crowded as human beings tended to stack their best intentions at beginnings; like you wouldn’t believe the chaos of bodies joining at New Year. Instead on a Sunday morning you’d have found only a dozen of real enthusiasts or singletons with no one to bring them coffee and croissants in bed and dashing out of the house to start filling their day. But it wasn’t the discomfort of so many kinds of sweat mingling in the stuffy room, the inability to see yourself in the mirrors, the constant readjustments so as not to swing your arms in someone else’s face that bothered him, more like the horror of the changing rooms, with only four shower heads and little space to cope with dozens and dozens of bodies. The dampness offered no chance to cool down at all after you towelled dry, your trousers refusing to climb up your still steaming and moist legs as you tried to get out as fast as possible. Hell in winter with people’s many extra layers of clothing to cope with. But right now, during Summer, it wasn’t so bad.
He had to admit the best classes really were the early morning ones at 6.45, when the white studio appeared almost new, welcoming you in all its vastness, the heat generators having not turned it quite into a sauna yet. The theory was that stretching in extreme heat made you stretch further and become more flexible faster - irresistible enticement to the fast food yoga generation. And you could space your mats and feel you were almost having one to one tuition. But for Michael that defeated the point. Some people were like those tourists in the beer ads, pathologically attached to their specific sunbathing spots. If they could have paid more to have a plaque with “Here comes xxx every other day, don’t step on my space” they would have done so, but Michael was never going to take a position in the coveted first row. He didn’t need the mirrors to adjust his positions, instinctively knowing when his body was out of alignment. That would have deprived him of the main reason why he came here on a Monday at 7pm, that of finding himself with his nose and eye-line at mere few inches from some woman’s delicious and soon to be dripping in sweat crotch. If he was horny he worked harder, simple as that. That was surely why the instructor kept telling the mob, there must be 80 people there at least, not to fidget or turn and to only concentrate on their own practice. Otherwise the men would be letting their eyes wander, like his did, to someone’s crack outline. Michael could testify that it was possible to get a hard on even in that heat and sweating so profusely.
At the 7pm class space was so tight that you didn’t even get to turn your mat when it came to triangle and the other two positions associated with that short sequence. So Michael had the added bonus of staring at two extra cunts on his left and on his right for a few minutes. As he bent down his nose would be practically brushing the tush in front. He loved that, unless it was a woman on her period as he had a super sensitive sense of smell, but women generally skipped a class at that time of the month, as the heat made them feel close to exploding. He never worried about who was behind him. Hopefully it would be one of those guys who never get an erection and turn up wearing bathing trunks, which left little to the imagination. He’d noticed some of these guys’ dicks in repose seemed not too noticeable and wondered which man didn’t mind looking ‘small’. Maybe someone who was truly a yogi, though he’d heard those all shagged like mad. That’s what had brought down Bagwan, that and the Rolls Royces in Oregon and now Sai Baba was in odour of molesting some his followers too. But these were your regular preaching gurus, not yoga gods he reflected.
Of course the correct male attire was those loose surfer trunks he wore. It was bad enough according to his ladies friends that all guys wore no t-shirts and frankly some people sprayed you with a profusion of sweat drops when they turned too fast. There was one man with longish hair who was practically a sprinkler. Michael was used to male sweat as he played squash and football, but the ladies found it so gross. Many bellies and love handles could also have been best hidden and indeed the women tried, at the beginning, to come with long leggings or tracksuit bottoms as they were that much more self-conscious, but these were so uncomfortable in the heat they abandoned them soon enough. In Michael’s ideal world there should be segregated classes where fit and toned bodies should have to wear bikinis, but this was no lifeguard show on the beach in Malibu. The most they used was bikini tops. He still found the variety of women’s shorts was bewildering though; especially on the ones who only wore a leotard and no knickers underneath so you could see the outline of their labia and sometimes actual flesh. Or wore shorts with a thong underneath, same results really. The older they were, the more you got to see: gravity was merciless. And far from him to point this out. None of the staff had thought of highlighting what constituted suitable clothing on a note on the wall like they had done with “Please, please, PLEASE, wash your feet and take care of your calluses, blisters and other off putting growths before you enter the class”.
The ass panorama was surely enhanced by the popularity of Brazilian waxes (for the un-initiated, only a tiny central strip is left and cropped very short) now enthusiastically embraced by most women, but, he suspected, welcomed as a true gift by those whose hair had started turning grey ‘down there’. “You can’t die your pussy hair and the first time you find some white strand in your bush is a shocking day for all, trust me”. This according to Janice’s latest secret she had revealed to him. She was his regular friend here and she looked great, happy that her thighs were finally skinnier, but he could have told her that only had a little to do with exercise, the rest was shrinking ovaries, fat starting to drain away from hips and abdomen after you turn 40 as no longer needed to cushion a baby. He smiled at her, positioned a few spaces away in the same row. She was a fun woman and it was her who’d got him here in the first place and who kept him up to date with gossip in the female changing room. Save from some titbit about some piercings or really bushy women, she’d told him about, not that interesting actually. Their conversation seemed to revolve around experienced students encouraging new ones to stick with it “It gets easier and bearable after a half dozen classes, you’ll see, drink plenty of water, don’t give up”. New guys, he’d noticed, never sought that sort of reassurance. They looked dazed and spaced out, beetroot red from the effort, but would never admit it was hard.
This did not affect him, by coming regularly for over two years and working hard at it, he’d developed a superbly toned body and was aware of the glances thrown in his direction as he walked in, though the vast, bluish tattoo on his arm and shoulder probably had something to do with it. That’s why he didn’t use the gym at work and wore long sleeves in Summer, assumptions would be made. He’d be too tempted to say he’d been a soldier of fortune before finding his path as an English professor and whilst he enjoyed rumours as much as the next person, he’d rather they’d be about someone else. Also as sometimes the tutor made a point of greeting him by name. Of course the best thing and easiest way to start a conversation with him, as he was obviously a pro, would have been to ask him advice on some position once the class had ended and he’d cooled down, but there were unwritten rules and why should he risks sleeping (yes in his modus operandi things went swiftly from speaking to sleeping with, if he wanted) with some woman here who he’d then have to see and ignore on a regular basis. It had only happened twice in the early days when he hadn’t fully thought it out. Anna had thrown in the towel and stopped coming first. She probably went to one of the other branches now, though she lived near this one and probably hated him for depriving her of her convenience. And with Linda, the teacher, well they had got over it after a few frosty classes. Hard to do frosty in a 90 degree heated room but Linda had managed to infuse her voice with ice when she walked around and came close to him.
The voice of the teacher was important of course, as it was the only sound to follow. No music was allowed and some teachers had better rhythms than others. Some stuck resolutely to their sitting position on the podium, hypnotically speaking into their head mikes, while some preferred to walk around, occasionally adjusting some limb, making an effort to remember beginners’ names and offering special encouragement “Newcomers, make sure you come back tomorrow, so your muscles stay stretched”. As if! The next three days for beginners would be a “I can barely move” stage. All teachers had absorbed the script and stuck to it faithfully: “Raise on your pointed toes, your tippy toes”, a silly children’s line like the one about “wiggle your bum like you were Marilyn Monroe”. They all used it mechanically, having learnt the speech at the expensive teacher-training in California. Now that would be a whole vista of new cunts, Michael fantasised. Eventually he would like to go on yoga holidays where he would change scene and antropomorphy: Reykiavik, LA, Tokyo… Without going too far he would still fantasise about having sex with one of the women who came to class. One at random within the small multi-national group he preferred: the Pole with her gymnast figure and milky - but in better condition - skin than the Brits, the Italian with the tiny, tiny waist, she only had to work harder on her chubbish legs, the Caribbean with her strong thighs and sticking out bum he would love to put a drink on.
As a playful game he could have got “her” to strike a pose like camel – on her knees bending far back to grab her own ankles, chest pushed forwards and upwards. And got down to tonguing her and see how long she could keep her hands firmly on her heels in her backward bend. Or rabbit, the opposite pose to camel, bending forward and arching her ass up. The possibilities were endless. They didn’t do ‘downward dog’ (speaks for itself) in this school of yoga, but he could have inserted that in his fantasy. Inserting being the operative word. Ass rising towards him, inserting his cock. Oh god, it was getting too much and he was feeling excitement mounting up. When that happened he would sit down on his mat and sit a pose out for a few moments, drinking his bottled water. You were encouraged to never leave the room, just skip a section if you weren’t feeling up to it. It was hard to look around discreetly at this point, but he had perfected a gaze that seemed to just not settle on anyone in particular. Not much time to spot someone new-ish that he could position himself behind next time. New women were great, awkward in their movements for a good many sessions, having to exaggerate every pose. And he could hear them breathing hard, but you only had one chance. Moving mat later was not the done thing, though in the general confusion people walked in it was ok in the first few minutes of disarray. But the floor space filled up too fast.
He ‘d nearly mentioned his regular thrills once to the nerdy guy at work who seemed so starved of pussy, but then decided against letting him into his playground. He’d told his brother who gave him a look of distaste and said he would stick to his gym routine. But he’d expected that from Sean, who was the kind of guy who couldn’t even talk during it. Michael had gleaned this information from a woman he took from him once. They’d flirted over Xmas and by New Year it was obvious she needed more action than Sean could offer. Gads, you’d think he was adopted.
The standing poses went by fast and then they were on the mats, doing ‘wind relieving pose’ and the real work supposedly, “massaging the internal organs” went the speech. Not much of a chance to show off in this sequence though he was exceptional at cobra. The teacher briefly opened a door and a window and the temperature lowered for a few heavenly seconds. The heaters were pumping out hot air irrespectively and relentlessly, but if you had learnt the trick about not wiping away your sweat with a towel, it acted as it was meant to in cooling you down. After the 26th and final pose was over Michael lay on his mat for a while, he didn’t mind getting to the showers last if it meant he could risk a quick wank in peace. Though he wished they moved posters of the founder teacher, MrBikram himself, away from his line of vision. The man seemed gnarled, had a seriously disapproving look on his face, though it could have been pain given how his body was twisted in the photos. When he finished, he tossed his towel on the overflowing laundry basket and switched his phone back on before he got dressed.
Afterwards Michael sat on one of the benches in the courtyard in the rapidly darkening sky light and had a freshly squeezed juice from the café. He nodded at a few acquaintances like John and Mara, the hippy couple, unlocking their bikes from the rail. Many people brought their partners hoping they would shape up fast and not be left behind in the ‘New Me’ stakes. Man, that was a double-edged idea if ever there was one, he thought. He sat and watched a few women go by, they took much longer to file past from their changing room after washing their hair and drying it, and lavishing cream on their bodies, all glowing from the effort. Now in their civvies most looked miles better than earlier, everyone wearing what best enhanced them. No cheating with padded bras, or make up in the studio. Well nearly most of them looked better he thought, but some were beyond redeeming features. He took a deep breath, only the fresh air outside and the scent of rosemary from the potted plants compensated for 90 minutes of inhaling other people’s toxins being released through their pores, as they kept being reminded time after time.
On the way out via the shop with its selection of books, tapes and skimpy exercise outfits, he stopped to chat briefly with the guys at reception. They were much younger than him, but looked up to “Hey, Michael, man!” and always invited him to a flow of clubs and parties. He went sometimes and thanked them by often providing the nasal lubrication. They never said no, probably snug in the delusion that drinks and drugs could be sweated out like a cold. Though it was true, yoga people never got colds. Fact.
As soon as he got out into the grimy West London street and started walking to his Audi parked nearby, he sparked a cigarette. Yes, great abs, shame about the lungs - he knew - “But no-one will get to see those till I keel over” he said aloud to ward off the inevitable.
They think they can turn the clock back, Michael thought as he stood calm and poised and ready for the session. He saw the room full of men and women, mostly women, psyching themselves up for the tough 90 minutes ahead. They think that if they exercise like mad now, maybe they can do without the cosmetic surgery later and stave off decay. To be honest, he reflected, yoga teachers do look good, there’s no denying it. Their bodies are taut and lean, but they don’t look younger or maybe they do, by a few years perhaps, but not considerably and besides it’s of no use to anyone. His mind wandered back to the old guys he saw running towards him in the park in the mornings. He could barely mask his disdain as they crossed on the Heath. So what that they are well preserved and don’t have much of a paunch, are tanned and their balding grey hair is well trimmed. Maybe they are 60, but look 55. So what? What they want to look, and be, is 35 at the most, and that’s just one illusion too far, it simply can’t be achieved. So what that Cliff Richard has dark hair, good teeth and doesn’t look 70? What’s that meant to make him? More attractive? To whom exactly? It’s not just about attraction of course, Michael knew that: it’s about being healthy and living longer. But for what? To go mountain biking in Peru’. And why? Because they didn’t get it together to do so in their 20s or 30s, or even 40s? Or they couldn’t afford it then, or hadn’t read about it in the Sunday papers supplements. Was that meant now to be some kind of competition to their grand kids? Grandpa went to Macchu Picchu. So what?
Quickly Michael’s thoughts reverted to a more familiar leit-motif. ‘I’d like to see my dick slide in and out of a black girl’s c unt, see that contrast between the rare-steak pink of the inside of her vulva and the surrounding area. That would definitely be my set up in the “Unlimited-length porn video in the sky” he thought, with various nationalities and sizes, if not ages, just to see what feels best instantly. To go against the stereotype of what I think I like. Michael liked porn, because the best thing about it was that those women don’t talk. There’s no ‘what did you do today, what are you going to do tomorrow and what will you be doing next week? And can I please come with’. None of that, just ‘Mmh’ and ‘Yeah baby’; he hardly registered the cheesy music.
In the studio he got variety for sure, though this was considered athletic yoga for hard nuts, none of that breathing and relaxing stuff, and so the composition of the class had a few too many men for his liking. Michael took in the large room, with the bright lights shining inside the panels on the ceiling, giving the illusion of constant daytime. Few people brought their own mat, so it didn’t stink, in a different colour from the standard and now very thin blue rubber. That was considered a bit too show off-y and girlie. None of the guys bothered and somehow putting up with stinking old mats added to the atmosphere of boot camp. “I love the smell of stale sweat in the morning” he said to himself to adjust to it every time he stepped in. Same for the towels probably, very few people opted to get two, using the one they’d drenched earlier in class for their shower, thus saving £1.
For most people the Monday and Tuesday evening classes were to be avoided. They were too crowded as human beings tended to stack their best intentions at beginnings; like you wouldn’t believe the chaos of bodies joining at New Year. Instead on a Sunday morning you’d have found only a dozen of real enthusiasts or singletons with no one to bring them coffee and croissants in bed and dashing out of the house to start filling their day. But it wasn’t the discomfort of so many kinds of sweat mingling in the stuffy room, the inability to see yourself in the mirrors, the constant readjustments so as not to swing your arms in someone else’s face that bothered him, more like the horror of the changing rooms, with only four shower heads and little space to cope with dozens and dozens of bodies. The dampness offered no chance to cool down at all after you towelled dry, your trousers refusing to climb up your still steaming and moist legs as you tried to get out as fast as possible. Hell in winter with people’s many extra layers of clothing to cope with. But right now, during Summer, it wasn’t so bad.
He had to admit the best classes really were the early morning ones at 6.45, when the white studio appeared almost new, welcoming you in all its vastness, the heat generators having not turned it quite into a sauna yet. The theory was that stretching in extreme heat made you stretch further and become more flexible faster - irresistible enticement to the fast food yoga generation. And you could space your mats and feel you were almost having one to one tuition. But for Michael that defeated the point. Some people were like those tourists in the beer ads, pathologically attached to their specific sunbathing spots. If they could have paid more to have a plaque with “Here comes xxx every other day, don’t step on my space” they would have done so, but Michael was never going to take a position in the coveted first row. He didn’t need the mirrors to adjust his positions, instinctively knowing when his body was out of alignment. That would have deprived him of the main reason why he came here on a Monday at 7pm, that of finding himself with his nose and eye-line at mere few inches from some woman’s delicious and soon to be dripping in sweat crotch. If he was horny he worked harder, simple as that. That was surely why the instructor kept telling the mob, there must be 80 people there at least, not to fidget or turn and to only concentrate on their own practice. Otherwise the men would be letting their eyes wander, like his did, to someone’s crack outline. Michael could testify that it was possible to get a hard on even in that heat and sweating so profusely.
At the 7pm class space was so tight that you didn’t even get to turn your mat when it came to triangle and the other two positions associated with that short sequence. So Michael had the added bonus of staring at two extra cunts on his left and on his right for a few minutes. As he bent down his nose would be practically brushing the tush in front. He loved that, unless it was a woman on her period as he had a super sensitive sense of smell, but women generally skipped a class at that time of the month, as the heat made them feel close to exploding. He never worried about who was behind him. Hopefully it would be one of those guys who never get an erection and turn up wearing bathing trunks, which left little to the imagination. He’d noticed some of these guys’ dicks in repose seemed not too noticeable and wondered which man didn’t mind looking ‘small’. Maybe someone who was truly a yogi, though he’d heard those all shagged like mad. That’s what had brought down Bagwan, that and the Rolls Royces in Oregon and now Sai Baba was in odour of molesting some his followers too. But these were your regular preaching gurus, not yoga gods he reflected.
Of course the correct male attire was those loose surfer trunks he wore. It was bad enough according to his ladies friends that all guys wore no t-shirts and frankly some people sprayed you with a profusion of sweat drops when they turned too fast. There was one man with longish hair who was practically a sprinkler. Michael was used to male sweat as he played squash and football, but the ladies found it so gross. Many bellies and love handles could also have been best hidden and indeed the women tried, at the beginning, to come with long leggings or tracksuit bottoms as they were that much more self-conscious, but these were so uncomfortable in the heat they abandoned them soon enough. In Michael’s ideal world there should be segregated classes where fit and toned bodies should have to wear bikinis, but this was no lifeguard show on the beach in Malibu. The most they used was bikini tops. He still found the variety of women’s shorts was bewildering though; especially on the ones who only wore a leotard and no knickers underneath so you could see the outline of their labia and sometimes actual flesh. Or wore shorts with a thong underneath, same results really. The older they were, the more you got to see: gravity was merciless. And far from him to point this out. None of the staff had thought of highlighting what constituted suitable clothing on a note on the wall like they had done with “Please, please, PLEASE, wash your feet and take care of your calluses, blisters and other off putting growths before you enter the class”.
The ass panorama was surely enhanced by the popularity of Brazilian waxes (for the un-initiated, only a tiny central strip is left and cropped very short) now enthusiastically embraced by most women, but, he suspected, welcomed as a true gift by those whose hair had started turning grey ‘down there’. “You can’t die your pussy hair and the first time you find some white strand in your bush is a shocking day for all, trust me”. This according to Janice’s latest secret she had revealed to him. She was his regular friend here and she looked great, happy that her thighs were finally skinnier, but he could have told her that only had a little to do with exercise, the rest was shrinking ovaries, fat starting to drain away from hips and abdomen after you turn 40 as no longer needed to cushion a baby. He smiled at her, positioned a few spaces away in the same row. She was a fun woman and it was her who’d got him here in the first place and who kept him up to date with gossip in the female changing room. Save from some titbit about some piercings or really bushy women, she’d told him about, not that interesting actually. Their conversation seemed to revolve around experienced students encouraging new ones to stick with it “It gets easier and bearable after a half dozen classes, you’ll see, drink plenty of water, don’t give up”. New guys, he’d noticed, never sought that sort of reassurance. They looked dazed and spaced out, beetroot red from the effort, but would never admit it was hard.
This did not affect him, by coming regularly for over two years and working hard at it, he’d developed a superbly toned body and was aware of the glances thrown in his direction as he walked in, though the vast, bluish tattoo on his arm and shoulder probably had something to do with it. That’s why he didn’t use the gym at work and wore long sleeves in Summer, assumptions would be made. He’d be too tempted to say he’d been a soldier of fortune before finding his path as an English professor and whilst he enjoyed rumours as much as the next person, he’d rather they’d be about someone else. Also as sometimes the tutor made a point of greeting him by name. Of course the best thing and easiest way to start a conversation with him, as he was obviously a pro, would have been to ask him advice on some position once the class had ended and he’d cooled down, but there were unwritten rules and why should he risks sleeping (yes in his modus operandi things went swiftly from speaking to sleeping with, if he wanted) with some woman here who he’d then have to see and ignore on a regular basis. It had only happened twice in the early days when he hadn’t fully thought it out. Anna had thrown in the towel and stopped coming first. She probably went to one of the other branches now, though she lived near this one and probably hated him for depriving her of her convenience. And with Linda, the teacher, well they had got over it after a few frosty classes. Hard to do frosty in a 90 degree heated room but Linda had managed to infuse her voice with ice when she walked around and came close to him.
The voice of the teacher was important of course, as it was the only sound to follow. No music was allowed and some teachers had better rhythms than others. Some stuck resolutely to their sitting position on the podium, hypnotically speaking into their head mikes, while some preferred to walk around, occasionally adjusting some limb, making an effort to remember beginners’ names and offering special encouragement “Newcomers, make sure you come back tomorrow, so your muscles stay stretched”. As if! The next three days for beginners would be a “I can barely move” stage. All teachers had absorbed the script and stuck to it faithfully: “Raise on your pointed toes, your tippy toes”, a silly children’s line like the one about “wiggle your bum like you were Marilyn Monroe”. They all used it mechanically, having learnt the speech at the expensive teacher-training in California. Now that would be a whole vista of new cunts, Michael fantasised. Eventually he would like to go on yoga holidays where he would change scene and antropomorphy: Reykiavik, LA, Tokyo… Without going too far he would still fantasise about having sex with one of the women who came to class. One at random within the small multi-national group he preferred: the Pole with her gymnast figure and milky - but in better condition - skin than the Brits, the Italian with the tiny, tiny waist, she only had to work harder on her chubbish legs, the Caribbean with her strong thighs and sticking out bum he would love to put a drink on.
As a playful game he could have got “her” to strike a pose like camel – on her knees bending far back to grab her own ankles, chest pushed forwards and upwards. And got down to tonguing her and see how long she could keep her hands firmly on her heels in her backward bend. Or rabbit, the opposite pose to camel, bending forward and arching her ass up. The possibilities were endless. They didn’t do ‘downward dog’ (speaks for itself) in this school of yoga, but he could have inserted that in his fantasy. Inserting being the operative word. Ass rising towards him, inserting his cock. Oh god, it was getting too much and he was feeling excitement mounting up. When that happened he would sit down on his mat and sit a pose out for a few moments, drinking his bottled water. You were encouraged to never leave the room, just skip a section if you weren’t feeling up to it. It was hard to look around discreetly at this point, but he had perfected a gaze that seemed to just not settle on anyone in particular. Not much time to spot someone new-ish that he could position himself behind next time. New women were great, awkward in their movements for a good many sessions, having to exaggerate every pose. And he could hear them breathing hard, but you only had one chance. Moving mat later was not the done thing, though in the general confusion people walked in it was ok in the first few minutes of disarray. But the floor space filled up too fast.
He ‘d nearly mentioned his regular thrills once to the nerdy guy at work who seemed so starved of pussy, but then decided against letting him into his playground. He’d told his brother who gave him a look of distaste and said he would stick to his gym routine. But he’d expected that from Sean, who was the kind of guy who couldn’t even talk during it. Michael had gleaned this information from a woman he took from him once. They’d flirted over Xmas and by New Year it was obvious she needed more action than Sean could offer. Gads, you’d think he was adopted.
The standing poses went by fast and then they were on the mats, doing ‘wind relieving pose’ and the real work supposedly, “massaging the internal organs” went the speech. Not much of a chance to show off in this sequence though he was exceptional at cobra. The teacher briefly opened a door and a window and the temperature lowered for a few heavenly seconds. The heaters were pumping out hot air irrespectively and relentlessly, but if you had learnt the trick about not wiping away your sweat with a towel, it acted as it was meant to in cooling you down. After the 26th and final pose was over Michael lay on his mat for a while, he didn’t mind getting to the showers last if it meant he could risk a quick wank in peace. Though he wished they moved posters of the founder teacher, MrBikram himself, away from his line of vision. The man seemed gnarled, had a seriously disapproving look on his face, though it could have been pain given how his body was twisted in the photos. When he finished, he tossed his towel on the overflowing laundry basket and switched his phone back on before he got dressed.
Afterwards Michael sat on one of the benches in the courtyard in the rapidly darkening sky light and had a freshly squeezed juice from the café. He nodded at a few acquaintances like John and Mara, the hippy couple, unlocking their bikes from the rail. Many people brought their partners hoping they would shape up fast and not be left behind in the ‘New Me’ stakes. Man, that was a double-edged idea if ever there was one, he thought. He sat and watched a few women go by, they took much longer to file past from their changing room after washing their hair and drying it, and lavishing cream on their bodies, all glowing from the effort. Now in their civvies most looked miles better than earlier, everyone wearing what best enhanced them. No cheating with padded bras, or make up in the studio. Well nearly most of them looked better he thought, but some were beyond redeeming features. He took a deep breath, only the fresh air outside and the scent of rosemary from the potted plants compensated for 90 minutes of inhaling other people’s toxins being released through their pores, as they kept being reminded time after time.
On the way out via the shop with its selection of books, tapes and skimpy exercise outfits, he stopped to chat briefly with the guys at reception. They were much younger than him, but looked up to “Hey, Michael, man!” and always invited him to a flow of clubs and parties. He went sometimes and thanked them by often providing the nasal lubrication. They never said no, probably snug in the delusion that drinks and drugs could be sweated out like a cold. Though it was true, yoga people never got colds. Fact.
As soon as he got out into the grimy West London street and started walking to his Audi parked nearby, he sparked a cigarette. Yes, great abs, shame about the lungs - he knew - “But no-one will get to see those till I keel over” he said aloud to ward off the inevitable.
posted by Lisa Taylor at 9:04 AM
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