Posts Tagged ‘sex’

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BROTHERLY LOVE AND THE NAZI STYLE OF YOGA

Yesterday, I went to yoga class. The teacher was a prime thoroughbred.  Black hair with gray streaks. Thick eyebrows. Willowy limbs and upright spine. She conducted herself with a golden drop of arrogance. An English accent also set her apart.

 A  trophy babe!   I smiled inside.  I  immediately thought, I’ve got something to show you.  I’m a man with a difference myself!

I parked my yoga mat next to her.  Why not get close to the flame?  While taking tuition and attending the roster, she asked if anybody had an injury or medical condition that she should know about.  I  knelt, yes, knelt and whispered,  “I’m eight months out of cancer treatment and I had an operation last week to have a chemo-port removed.”  

 She was trained in poise.  Yet there was alarm in her eyes.  To spare a pity-party I quickly added, “And I have monster arthritis in my left hip.  So I go slow.”  I saw her thinking: who is this nut who moves seamlessly from the mortal threat of cancer to the nagging pain of arthritis?  I laughed. I thought to myself,  I’ll show you!   And so I went through the yoga class like a man on the job.  Really, I went through the yoga class like a laboring shudra laborer, a man of the well-digger’s caste, who gets paid to work through pain.   When it’s too low-down and nasty for everyone else, it’s just right for me!

Luckily, it was a restorative class.  Very slow but very precise and thorough.  This particular diva is a teacher of the Iyengar  style of yoga. Which I call “The Nazi Style of Yoga” because it’s  regimented, austere and  powerful. An über-mechanics built upon a Brahmin’s bloodline. Iyengar himself is a stern patriarch with a genius for engineering elite texts and teachers.  How this femme transformed his  dry-eyed yogametry became an ongoing  mystery to me. A female mystery that’s just as stupefying as the yoni or pussy or whatever you  call the thing tucked into a woman’s interior. So I spent the entire class marvelling at a total woman.  Juiced with celestial light! Juiced with  base irrigant!  Juiced with higher and lower currents of premium mojo.  Not bad work if you can get it and, believe me, few yoginis get it right.

I spent the entire class  studying her hard earned and softly rendered maturity.  She had a graduated female delicacy when came to explaining very tough stuff. This light touch is especially amazing if you come from the “get a bigger hammer” school of life.  It was lovely lesson  by a  woman whose career was years ahead of mine. We were peers in age only.  And though I could never imitate her as a man, I knew that she had something timely to teach me about the renewal of sex and intelligence.  I  wouldn’t call her a “potent” teacher.  But if I had the male-complement to her second bloom then I’d be a potent communicator and wordsmith.  An old but seminal medium. 

That’s what I learned, yesterday,  while nominally studying yoga.   

Well, I taught her something in return. Albeit at the  level of comic character with piss ‘n vinegar in his bloodlines.  I followed her directions.  I needed zero nursing.  I labored like born shudra laborer and the best in my calloused caste.  And I showed her that I also had something majestic: a low-down male meanness, a life-long knowledge of pain, and a base metaphysical duty to endure shitty-luck with devilish élan.  I flashed a serene mastery of my own brute humors. She had so much love in her eyes after the otherwise routine yoga class.  We were like brother and sister!   Maybe, twins apart

 

 

 

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