Lots of spicy hookups happen after yoga classes here on the West Coast. Folks get so fired up after a sweaty hour of looking at each other in stretch pants. Their crotches twist this way and that through the fabric. Nipples get hard as the body exerts itself.
Even though yoga is supposed to be spiritual, we all know that for some it’s about seeing and being seen. It’s about making yourself the most sexually attractive that you can be.
I realize that lithe fellow over there with the top knot looks absolutely ridiculous, but he is getting more poontang than Don Juan and Sinatra put together on a regular Saturday night. He invites a couple of ladies over to his place for extra yoga practice, maybe offers them some personal instruction.
The point is that he knows how to normalize the intimate touch of guided yoga sessions. The ladies get used to his hands on them, gripping firmly while he encourages them to get deeper and deeper into their poses. They start to desire more before they even realize that this is the game.
What happens at the private yoga class stays at the private yoga class. A man bending his bare chest, showing off his flexibility. A man touting his staying power by obliquely referring to his diet can mine sexual diamonds under the tectonic layers of his bed sheets.
Couples poses, and poses in threes, easily transmogrify into erotic couplings. How far can one lady stretch another lady’s legs back to allow the man to enter? How will they coil and uncoil like subcontinental snakes in the hot dust in order to please the tantric gaze of his eye?
Tantric sex is built right into yoga. The sexual pleasure of the body is euphemistically referred to as the stimulation of certain lower chakras, and the simple act of getting laid becomes a pathway to knowing God. The seduction is built right into the exercise. The Hatha class at the YMCA is a gateway to the vaster pleasures beyond.
Why else would the accentuation of the body be such a key element of the yoga class if it weren’t for seduction? It would follow that slightly baggier attire would suffice for the modest and those more concerned with comfort.
But now the highly sexualized yoga pants have leaked from the clandestine spaces of private yoga sessions and into the street. Black nylon asses of well-defined curvature are everywhere. They are visible above us on escalators at the mall and subways and everywhere in between.
What is a fellow to do?
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