Mr. H&C is clearly unsteady, the occasional contact between his fingertips and his mat tenuous at best. But even though I demonstrated using blocks if needed, he persists without any aids. His knees are locked, even after I remind him to soften them.
The man is stiff. And that’s an unfortunate choice of words, since I don’t need Ana’s dirty mind to prompt me to think about what other stiff parts of him might look like.
It’s harder swearing off men than I thought it would be. Most of the time, my resolve is strong, but moments of weakness keep popping up like a hormonal game of whack-a-mole.
Despite my best efforts, my body craves men, and I don’t even know why, because in my experience, sex isn’t as great as people say it is. My orgasms were few and far, far between when I was with Rick. On three separate occasions, I had to show him wheremy clit was, and he wasn’t dumb, so I should have realized a lot sooner that he just didn’t care.
I can and do get myself off, but it only serves as mild stress relief. I don’t understand the fireworks and earth shaking and all that colorful jazz that people rhapsodize about. I’m convinced it’s all exaggeration.
Circulating around the room, I help people transition into a revolved pose, with one arm pointing to the ceiling, the other toward the ground.
Mr. H&C is steady in this pose, and the extended arm is …well, it’s something to see. He may be new to yoga, but he’s obviously no stranger to the gym. Without meaning to, I speculate about how far my fingers could stretch around his bicep. I have a strong urge to find out, but luckily, my willpower prevails.
His backside is looking very nice, too. And those thighs. So thick.
Move on, Callie! Move on.Deciding he needs no adjustment, I turn away and focus on other students, even as, in the back of my mind, I’m speculating about using part of my next paycheck to buy a new vibrator.
I make my way over to Marissa, who seems to be enjoying herself in the poses, and Ana, who’s still mostly ogling Mr. H&C. I guess I can’t blame her.
When I get within range, she curls her finger, beckoning me closer. “I’m gonna talk to him after class,” she whispers too loudly.
I lean in right next to her ear, so only she can hear me. “This is not a bar. You’re not supposed to come to class to pick up men.”
This earns me an odd look. “I may not have a health club membership, but I know what goes on while people are working out together. While they’re all hot and sweaty, lifting and flexing, squatting and thrusting?—”
It’s bad enough that Ana’s talking in yoga class, which is usually a quiet environment, but it’s worse yet that she acts out these last couple of comments, thrusting her hips forward and back, a lewd grin on her face.
“Ana! Shh!” I whisper a harsh, “Don’t do it!” before I call out another pose for the class and move away from my horny friend.
I’m distracted for the rest of the sequence, certain that my roommate won’t heed my warning, and wondering what kind of response she’ll get when she approaches him. Will he stay in morning grump mode, which she’ll no doubt enjoy, or will he show her some of that evening charm?
Why does the thought of either response make me feel oddly possessive about him?
I guide everyone through the end of the flow series, then down onto the floor for a few twists, before it’s time for the pose that ends every yoga class,shavasana,also known as corpse pose.
Outwardly, it’s incredibly simple. All someone needs to do is lie flat on their back, eyes closed, and remain still for the duration, which is usually only five minutes, depending on the class.
It’s many people’s favorite part, a reward for hard work, a chance to relax amidst a hectic day. It has mental, physical, and emotional benefits that stay with a person long after class is over, which is why I’m at first alarmed, and then incredibly irritated when I see Mr. H&C roll onto his side, extract his phonefrom a pocket—phones are, of course, not allowed in class—and start tapping at his screen.
He’s doing all of this quietly, and no one around him seems to be disturbed, but it’s still incredibly disrespectful.
Moving as quietly as I can, I cross over to him and wave my arms until I get his attention. Brace yourself for this surprise: When he looks up at me, he’s … frowning.
I frown right back at him, shaking my head and slashing a finger across my throat before I silently mouth, “Put your phone away.”
Dividing his attention between me and the screen, he holds up a finger, mouthing back, “Work.” He continues typing away for several more seconds, ignoring my glare, before he finally slips his device back where it came from.
I wait for him to at least have the decency to look apologetic, but instead he simply settles back onto the mat, knees bent, eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling as if he’s counting down the seconds until class is over.
Sure enough, the moment I bring everyone to a sitting position, say a few nice words to the class, and end with a “Namaste,” the man bolts from the room, not even bothering to roll up his lender mat, much less put it back in the closet where it belongs.
When Ana sees him leave, she pouts like a kid who dropped her lollipop. I’m surprised she doesn’t run after him.
“He’s such a hottie,” Marissa says after everyone else has left except for her and Ana.
“He was texting during class, and he left this for me to take care of. He’s a jerk.” I finish rolling up his mat, my mood saltier than all of the sweat on the blue PVC.
“Maybe he’s a high-powered exec,” Ana speculates. “A billionaire who had to jump in to save an international deal from going south right at the last minute.”
