The sudden arrival of winter in the Southwest made Carlson walk slowly to the gate. He noticed the leaves toss themselves across his path, and listened to them rustle by. These were conversations he had forgotten to tune in to. Finally the Altadena hills were blanketed by snow, and the moon's own hills seemed sharper. The cold itself was like a conversation with an old friend he wasn't expecting, a call out of the blue that brought him life he didn't know he was missing. What reinvigorated him was as mysterious and unexpected as what drained and deteriorated.
Beyond the gate, a possum hid behind the magnolia tree. A tree rat paused. Crows rummaging by the backyard fence took off at the clash of the latched wood. The cold brought contemplation, and so it was the first time in months that he remembered that he was a part of nature, too. That nature wasn't just an Other. It was a sibling alien that shared the planet. His legs ached from the tightness of the weather and the heavy running he'd done the other day.
As for his lover who lived upstairs with him, she was also like family. Sexless and distant, who paid the rent on time, who cooked sometimes a thoughtful stew. But it wasn't enough to replace what was lost between them. That's all there is to say on the topic. He was set on going to yoga that evening, at the new studio in downtown, to de-stress, to ogle at women's asses, to free his contorted mind through bodily bends. He would leave his ring at home. That much was intended.
Carlson arrived uncomfortably early to the spacious, overheated (to fight the new chill in town) studio, painted a mellow purple and with sedated green. It calmed and warmed him, and erased his work and marriage woes. A tanned, determinedly peaceful woman at the desk, wearing an om-symbol T-shirt extended by ample cleavage, greeted him with a smile that moved him to hold eye contact for an extra second. That itself sent a surge to his second chakra, the one where all his energy was stuck. "Tina," he thought, and repeated the name to himself, in a half-stupor.
He plopped himself on the cushy, fuzzy gray sofa parked near the expensive yoga-wear they sold in the lobby. The students that slowly entered the studio were just what he assumed: forty-something, medium- to high-wealth white and Latino women in well-fitted elastic pants that expressed supple, plump cheeks and shirts that well defined their soft curves. "Why is this a woman's sport?" he thought to himself incredulously, as if he'd found a choice, unattended restaurant. This gem was his.
"Nice to have a man's presence among us," one of them jokingly spoke to Tina. Carlson blushed. Another saw him. He blushed openly, enjoying his vulnerability. The group of six entered the yoga area behind a thick velvet curtain. It was even warmer there, with wall-to-wall gray carpeting. Buddha statues in the corners; sandalwood fragrance burned at the front of the room where the teacher's mat was laid out. The veteran women rolled out their mats, while the lone male borrowed one from the back. He nervously hustled back and found room between a petite blonde and a curvy Latina with lower-back-length hair that seemed to point to her plump--that is, perfect--ass. Carlson stretched as the others were doing but couldn't help getting a little excited thinking about smacking that sweet flesh after pantsing her in the bathroom like the horny stud he was--or imagined he was--and slipping his Vaselined prick between her cheeks. "Compose yourself, you sex-starved fucker," he thought, half-trying to shake the naughty visions from his mind.
Out of nowhere it seemed, Tina was at the head of the class gently ordering the league of ladies--and the newbie male--to arch their backs to the heavens, to wrap one leg around another, to make the body a bow and the concentrated frown a smile. The montage of moves made him mad with lust. He imagined the myriad fuck poses he could try with these ladies, all beautiful in their unique way. Petite, tall, pale, dark, skinny, plump, naughty, nice ... spit, swallow, suck, slurp, smear ... public bathroom, nature hike, on the roof, on the linoleum floor, in the basement, in the shower, in the open field, in the alley ... open up, open wide ...
At last an hour and half had passed and they rested like corpses on the lawn of the sweaty studio room. Blood coursed them, pulsing steadily, slowly. For Carlson, all the downward dog posing and the all-fours arches made him slip into uncountable orgy fantasies, pumping these five rumps from behind like a rich factory-line fuck with poontang cunt scent filling the room, heavy tits plumping up with lust and bouncing under their chests under the undulations of his proud--he was fucking five women after all--doggiestyle wailings. From a petite redhead with disproportionately large breasts, to the plump Latina with a small pretty chest and whose hair would become a cordial rein for her master, to the perfectly curvy instructor whose belly ring dangled temptingly throughout that class, and whose toned, thin legs led up to a wide expanse of womanly cushion he lusted to kneed with almond oil for a whole evening. Carlson's appetite was just as expansive.
Needless to say, his erection was at full salute despite a very secondary desire to keep it down for decorum's sake. Especially since Tina was walking about the room pressing students' shoulders down to release tension during their final pose.
All their eyes were closed, but Carlson peaked to see what was happening. He looked down and saw the hopeless case of his hard-on and looked over to see the tight crotches in repose. The instructor was even mist-spraying lavender in the room. Then he could feel her presence above him, then her breath near his, then something between sweat and a rosy perfume, then her hands above his pectorals, pressing his shoulders down, releasing heart tension and a sigh from both of them, just as she'd done with the others. "Relax," she said, just as she'd coached the others to let go.
Tina looked around the room and casually observed her students in full repose. She did not release her hands from his pecs but instead gripped the full muscles, as a woman might grope a man as he would a woman, and squeezed and simultaneously pressed her lips to his forehead, observing then, as she had five minutes earlier, his aching unselfconscious member that sought her soft caress. She whispered something in his hear. His face was red beyond red, his balls blue beyond a deep purple.
At last the class sat up, gave a goodbye in a language that wasn't their own, and the lights came on and the mats rolled up. The hens gossiped; few lingered. The sexy long-haired woman chatted with Tina about the next day's classes, but nothing significant. The lot of them thanked Carlson for keeping up with them despite it being his first class. Like a 14-year-old boy asked to walk up to the classroom at the moment he thought of the girl next to him (who was naked in the forest but for her pink thong), he sat still where he was, stuck in half-lotus, smiling and avoiding standing at all costs so as not to display his embarrassing arousal. A bone that forgot its soft origins.
Tina was in no hurry to leave. In fact, she asked the Latina gal to switch the lights off as she left, so that only the flame near Tina's mat lit the room, and then only the instructor and the new student were left.
"Go ahead and stay in your resting post. Lie down," she gently ordered Carlson. His heart was beating uncontrollably. He knew yet didn't know what would happen next. But strangely he was comfortable. He closed his eyes and heard her walk over to him. His senses heightened, he listened as a quiet elastic waistband was snapped. It wasn't his. She was removing her stretch pants as she stood over his face. Tina kicked them aside and opened a bottle of lavender oil, which she calmly rubbed on his third eye and temples. She watched him lick his lips and swallow inordinately, dry from lust. She was crouched down, her black thong hiked up her plump, no-tanline ass. Her pussy had melted earlier in the hour. So powerful was its honey that she had already saturated the thin triangle veil that separated Carlson's nose from the womanly source. Yet he could smell her tangy perfume even over the heavy lavender on his face. O how she dripped watching him continue to wipe his dry lips with an uncontrollable tongue.
Then he felt it. A cool, supple thigh grazed his left ear. His heart thumped loudly; he couldn't hear his instructor's subsequent thighs and nor could she hear his. Then the other thigh pressed against his right ear. She was straddling him. She was going to feed him her ambrosia. She was going to let him suckle from the fount, the silken temple called yoni. She dipped her wet panties onto his nose, which he sniffed eagerly. He lapped at the moist cotton, and made a small erection of it to push aside the material and taste the precious cunt juice. She rode him. She rode him hard. He barely breathed. Barely wanted to breathe. No escape, no desire to escape.
Tina was only going to ride his blessed face for so long until she peeled back his own pants to reveal his lingam, which she also thirsted for. Amazing how we create thirsts, how we read thirsts on the sidewalks and in the yoga classes, how it's thirst that makes us sin and it's thirst that makes us whole again. They were going to become one by sucking lips and cock, like a beast that eats itself. He pushed aside the wettened panties and gracefully puckered the lips with his finger and thumb, and she licked the veiny pole and took it in her salivating mouth without hesitation. And feeling her hunger for dick, he gave up the playful licks and dove in nose and tongue to excavate her musty dew, to playfully draw out as much juice as a horny face could.
