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.
