The Practice

This was supposed to be good for him, solve all his problems, turn him into a beautiful human being free from anxiety and judgement, a zen freakin machine of bliss. Why does he feel like he's about to split in two? This can't be right. Rob is positive no human being is built to contort like this, all cirque de soleil up in his groin. The yogini in her strappy bra top and skintight lulus with her perfect upside down heart shaped ass is relentlessly upbeat and encouraging, gently guiding his hip into the right position, touching him in ways no woman has in months. If he wasn't in so much pain he'd have a raging erection. Fantastic, just what Rob needs to help him release into the pose. Oh man, don't think about release, don't look at her ass, that pefect ass. All this forward folding. It's enough to get him to class every day. Twice a day depending on the teacher. Bought himself an unlimited monthly pass. What he can't understand is why the classes aren't polluted with men. It's ninety percent women scantily clad in spandex, bending and twisting, breathing, sweating, chanting, searching for inner peace. I'll give you some inner peace- this is all Rob can think of when the instructor comes and firmly pulls her hands down the back of his pelvis, then rotates his thigh outward with a grip so firm, so confident and knowing he's thankful he wore compression shorts under his baggy sweats. Lying in savasana he struggles to come back from arousal married with pain. Visions of downward dogging the yogini become his meditation. Namaste. Oh yes, na ma ste. Ommmmmmmmmmm.

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