I have been attending Bikram Yoga classes for the last month. Judy and I have been going up to four times a week. It is fantastic. Basically it involves doing over 70 yoga moves in 90 minutes in a room warmed to 40 degrees Celsius with 70 percent humidity. When I first did it, I thought I'd been dropped into a rice cooker and asked to do aerobics. It was one of the most exhausting physical activities I had done in sometime. A Dr friend had taken me after he heard me complaining that I was getting bored with bootcamp and needed something different. One session of bikram was like doing three sessions of bootcamp. I waddled in Roseanne Barr and strutted out Keira Knightly. I lost so much water, I could have kick-started the Murry-darling river system from my sweat glands. The first two times I hated it but by the fourth time, I've got to say I've gotten quite into it and love its intensity. The classes have mainly been filled with women and the odd twig resembling man (with exception of myself of course…. me being more a stump than a twig). Last night I arrived in my old Cronulla footy shorts and singlet. I was beginning to feel quite comfortable with my tontine (as in pillow) physique until I walked into the room. There lounging on their mats in their jocks were five lads who appeared to have wandered straight out of the French Rugby Team’s annual calendar shoot.
Call me Paris Hilton, but there was no other way to describe these guys other than hot; seriously hot. White alfa male hot. It was hot. The room was hot. They made it hotter. An exposed buttock and I would turn into the human equivalent of a kettle. The moisture drained from my mouth like steam. The class was full and so was everything else. There was only one spot left….right in the middle of them. Great; I didn't even have room to be beside myself. I took my place and sat upright in the foetal position hoping to look firm. It didn't work. Amongst these guys I looked like I’d just given birth to triplets.
The guy to my right (lets call him Hot Rugby Player 1: HRP1) was ridiculous and was straighter than god. He resembled a younger version of Eric Bana except bigger and stronger. Each muscle clipped onto his body like magnets covered in a nice deep Cadbury tissue finished in a perfect furry chest. He was s*x in a box. I was finished before I started.
HRP1 : Hey mate
Me (trying to find my voice): Yeah
HRP1: Is it alright wearing jocks? We’re from Melbourne and in the classes down there, we just wear our jocks.
What was I going to say? No ….they’re illegal in this state…take them off. I reached for my bottle of water wishing it was gin.
Me: Oh no it’s fine, we wear anything in Sydney.
HRP1: Ok cool.
Me: You’re from Melbourne?
HRP1: Yeah…..up for university rugby
How lovely jubbly
Me: You boys altogether?
In some sort five way gang bang marriage perhaps.
HRP1: Yeah we play for Melbourne University
He laid there on his side like a big beautiful cat. He was 23 if that but a man in full bloom already. I on the other hand felt like some sleazy old parker looking at a barmaid’s rack. My eyes kept drifting down to his strong neck, perfect pectorals, shoulders of rock, his intensely furry chest down to his v lined waist and legs made out of tree trunks. The game they play in heaven always produces men made in heaven. I continued the conversation.
Me: You been doing Bikram for long?
HRB1: Yeah for about a year. I love it. It’s great for your flexibility. I brought the boys along tonight….they’ve never done it before. You play rugby?
No I don’t but can you sit on my face. Ok no, I didn’t say that.
ME: Not for years….just at school.
I always say that but it is a complete lie. I played it for about five seconds at school. There are two religions at Catholic private schools: rugby and Catholicism; the former being the most important. I played it for a year in Grade 8 where I spent most games either sick or in a music lesson. I hated it. Looking back I can’t believe I turned down the opportunity to throw around or be thrown around by big sexy cats such as the one that was lounged in front of me. Ah the ignorance of youth
HRB1: Which position did you play?
Me: Oh lots of them
“John I’d ask you that you not speak. It is time for focus and breathing before your practice.”
It was Kyoko: The world’s toughest yoga instructor. She is half German and half Japanese. Yes the two protagonists of World War II wrapped into one woman’s body. You don’t fuck with Kyoko. She makes Madonna seem like Doris Day. I laid down quickly and found my focus. It was short lived.
There’s a lot of bending over in yoga which is great for one’s back but not for the present situation I was in. Every time HRP1 bent over, I fell over. He would stretch to the left, I would slip over to the left. He’d reach to the ceiling on one leg; I would develop paraplegia and find the floor. I was a yoga car crash and Kyoko was relentless througout the first half of the class continually giving me instructions in front of the 30 member full class:
Kyoko: Breathe in through the nose John not the mouth; focus
Kyoko: Keep palms locked John and look in the mirror; focus
Kyoko: Keep feet together John and look in the mirror; focus
Kyoko: John we’re bending backwards, not forwards; focus
Kyoko: John we’re facing to the left, not to the right; focus
Kyoko: John focus on yourself and no one else. Focus.
Kyoko: John what’s wrong with you?
Kyoko looked at HRP1 then smirked at me as I lay spread-eagled on the ground after my failed attempt to sit down in a tree pose. Such a pose is meant to stretch your thyroid. HRP1 was in a perfect sit down tree pose stretching his thyroid into next week. Meanwhile the only thing I’d stretched was my dignity….right out the door.
We moved on to the second half of the class which we spend entirely on the floor. This was rather handy considering I’d spent the entire first part of the class down there anyway.
I was far more focused in the second half; doing my plane, rabbit and monkey poses with absolute professionalism. Kyoko complimented me a number of times whilst still gazing at my HRP1 and smirking at me.
The rest of the rugby boys however were starting to find the going a bit tough. It’s usually around this point that the bikram virgins start to fall. They politely turn on their back and hope for the end to be nigh.
Only two poses from the end, I was exhausted but confident. The heat as the class is finishing, really does become unbearable to the point where I am always worried that I am going to have a moment of turrets and start calling the instructor a c#*t. I was feeling this, as I lay down for my last rest two minute rest. I was lying there wanting it to be completely over, not even remotely distracted by the gigantic chest movements of my neighbour’s remarkable physique.
Kyoko : Upward valley rise, downward valley fall
Kyoko: Upward valley rise, downward valley fall.
Kyoko kept repeating the phrase to assist our breathing. It works every time. While I was concentrating on the movement of air through my nostrils, I could feel this niggle in my left calf muscle. I didn’t think anything of it. At that stage of the class your brain is flat out working how one’s nose works, let alone a distant niggle in one’s calf. As I pulled myself for my last sit up, I soon realized that the niggle was a warning of something that should definitely be heeded.
I pulled myself up and then noticed my left calf muscle flexing of its own accord. It was like seeing a tidal wave two seconds before it hits the ground. You know it’s going to be bad but you can’t do anything about it.
“Oh no,” I thought to myself. I went to stretch my leg hoping to stop it before it hit but it was too late. Like a knife going through my leg, the pain struck my nervous system. I screamed like Whitney and fell on my back. Fuck I’d forgotten how bloody painful a cramp can be.
The whole class stood upright looking at me on my back with my calf in the air giving a powerpoint presentation. Quicker than you could say Hot Rugby Player 1, HRP1 was right between my legs stretching my left leg down towards my body.
HRP1: Mate let me push and you try and flex at the same time
Was this the wrong time to ask for his number I thought?
As I was planning our wedding on a beach in Bali, my right leg decided to join my left leg. I yelled out again. While still pushing my left leg back, Hot Rugby Player quickly grabbed my right leg and forced it back. The pain was excruciating yet it was resulting in a strangely pleasurable situation. It was if my body was subconsciously trying to get myself into an awkward position with Hot Rugby Player. I soon realized when I looked at the side mirror though that the position was more than awkward, it was missionary. Great: I’d turned Friday night yoga into a live sex show.
HRP1: Release your legs let me push. Keep flexing
Kyoko is rarely lost for words but she stood there with her mouth ajar with the rest of the class’s mouths similarly positioned.
HRP1 kept pushing. I kept flexing. He kept grunting. I kept moaning. It was the perfect relationship…..except that there were 30 other people in the room watching. Finally the pain began to subside.
Kyoko: Everyone, I think we might leave the class there. Keep breathing John.
If she told me to focus, I would have hit her. HRP1 slowly let my legs come back down. Kyoko gave me some water.
HRP: Turn on your stomach. Let me just massage your legs.
Kyoko smirked again: I’ll leave you two to it.
HRP massaged and I desperately tried not to think of any lustful thoughts which may have lead to completely losing my dignity once I stood up. When the room had cleared, we started chatting.
His name was Scott. He was 25 and was studying physiotherapy at Melbourne University. I detected a slight American accent and he said that he moved to Australia from LA when he was ten. He was father is Croatian and his mother is French. So my French rugby player comparison wasn’t far off.
Standing up on my jelly legs, I decided to throw caution to the wind and have a friendly crack: So does this mean we’re going out now?
Expecting a stuttering blushing straight man response, without a blink he said: “ Ha ha…nah. I already have a boyfriend.”
He winked and walked off.
C
Call me Paris Hilton, but there was no other way to describe these guys other than hot; seriously hot. White alfa male hot. It was hot. The room was hot. They made it hotter. An exposed buttock and I would turn into the human equivalent of a kettle. The moisture drained from my mouth like steam. The class was full and so was everything else. There was only one spot left….right in the middle of them. Great; I didn't even have room to be beside myself. I took my place and sat upright in the foetal position hoping to look firm. It didn't work. Amongst these guys I looked like I’d just given birth to triplets.
The guy to my right (lets call him Hot Rugby Player 1: HRP1) was ridiculous and was straighter than god. He resembled a younger version of Eric Bana except bigger and stronger. Each muscle clipped onto his body like magnets covered in a nice deep Cadbury tissue finished in a perfect furry chest. He was s*x in a box. I was finished before I started.
HRP1 : Hey mate
Me (trying to find my voice): Yeah
HRP1: Is it alright wearing jocks? We’re from Melbourne and in the classes down there, we just wear our jocks.
What was I going to say? No ….they’re illegal in this state…take them off. I reached for my bottle of water wishing it was gin.
Me: Oh no it’s fine, we wear anything in Sydney.
HRP1: Ok cool.
Me: You’re from Melbourne?
HRP1: Yeah…..up for university rugby
How lovely jubbly
Me: You boys altogether?
In some sort five way gang bang marriage perhaps.
HRP1: Yeah we play for Melbourne University
He laid there on his side like a big beautiful cat. He was 23 if that but a man in full bloom already. I on the other hand felt like some sleazy old parker looking at a barmaid’s rack. My eyes kept drifting down to his strong neck, perfect pectorals, shoulders of rock, his intensely furry chest down to his v lined waist and legs made out of tree trunks. The game they play in heaven always produces men made in heaven. I continued the conversation.
Me: You been doing Bikram for long?
HRB1: Yeah for about a year. I love it. It’s great for your flexibility. I brought the boys along tonight….they’ve never done it before. You play rugby?
No I don’t but can you sit on my face. Ok no, I didn’t say that.
ME: Not for years….just at school.
I always say that but it is a complete lie. I played it for about five seconds at school. There are two religions at Catholic private schools: rugby and Catholicism; the former being the most important. I played it for a year in Grade 8 where I spent most games either sick or in a music lesson. I hated it. Looking back I can’t believe I turned down the opportunity to throw around or be thrown around by big sexy cats such as the one that was lounged in front of me. Ah the ignorance of youth
HRB1: Which position did you play?
Me: Oh lots of them
“John I’d ask you that you not speak. It is time for focus and breathing before your practice.”
It was Kyoko: The world’s toughest yoga instructor. She is half German and half Japanese. Yes the two protagonists of World War II wrapped into one woman’s body. You don’t fuck with Kyoko. She makes Madonna seem like Doris Day. I laid down quickly and found my focus. It was short lived.
There’s a lot of bending over in yoga which is great for one’s back but not for the present situation I was in. Every time HRP1 bent over, I fell over. He would stretch to the left, I would slip over to the left. He’d reach to the ceiling on one leg; I would develop paraplegia and find the floor. I was a yoga car crash and Kyoko was relentless througout the first half of the class continually giving me instructions in front of the 30 member full class:
Kyoko: Breathe in through the nose John not the mouth; focus
Kyoko: Keep palms locked John and look in the mirror; focus
Kyoko: Keep feet together John and look in the mirror; focus
Kyoko: John we’re bending backwards, not forwards; focus
Kyoko: John we’re facing to the left, not to the right; focus
Kyoko: John focus on yourself and no one else. Focus.
Kyoko: John what’s wrong with you?
Kyoko looked at HRP1 then smirked at me as I lay spread-eagled on the ground after my failed attempt to sit down in a tree pose. Such a pose is meant to stretch your thyroid. HRP1 was in a perfect sit down tree pose stretching his thyroid into next week. Meanwhile the only thing I’d stretched was my dignity….right out the door.
We moved on to the second half of the class which we spend entirely on the floor. This was rather handy considering I’d spent the entire first part of the class down there anyway.
I was far more focused in the second half; doing my plane, rabbit and monkey poses with absolute professionalism. Kyoko complimented me a number of times whilst still gazing at my HRP1 and smirking at me.
The rest of the rugby boys however were starting to find the going a bit tough. It’s usually around this point that the bikram virgins start to fall. They politely turn on their back and hope for the end to be nigh.
Only two poses from the end, I was exhausted but confident. The heat as the class is finishing, really does become unbearable to the point where I am always worried that I am going to have a moment of turrets and start calling the instructor a c#*t. I was feeling this, as I lay down for my last rest two minute rest. I was lying there wanting it to be completely over, not even remotely distracted by the gigantic chest movements of my neighbour’s remarkable physique.
Kyoko : Upward valley rise, downward valley fall
Kyoko: Upward valley rise, downward valley fall.
Kyoko kept repeating the phrase to assist our breathing. It works every time. While I was concentrating on the movement of air through my nostrils, I could feel this niggle in my left calf muscle. I didn’t think anything of it. At that stage of the class your brain is flat out working how one’s nose works, let alone a distant niggle in one’s calf. As I pulled myself for my last sit up, I soon realized that the niggle was a warning of something that should definitely be heeded.
I pulled myself up and then noticed my left calf muscle flexing of its own accord. It was like seeing a tidal wave two seconds before it hits the ground. You know it’s going to be bad but you can’t do anything about it.
“Oh no,” I thought to myself. I went to stretch my leg hoping to stop it before it hit but it was too late. Like a knife going through my leg, the pain struck my nervous system. I screamed like Whitney and fell on my back. Fuck I’d forgotten how bloody painful a cramp can be.
The whole class stood upright looking at me on my back with my calf in the air giving a powerpoint presentation. Quicker than you could say Hot Rugby Player 1, HRP1 was right between my legs stretching my left leg down towards my body.
HRP1: Mate let me push and you try and flex at the same time
Was this the wrong time to ask for his number I thought?
As I was planning our wedding on a beach in Bali, my right leg decided to join my left leg. I yelled out again. While still pushing my left leg back, Hot Rugby Player quickly grabbed my right leg and forced it back. The pain was excruciating yet it was resulting in a strangely pleasurable situation. It was if my body was subconsciously trying to get myself into an awkward position with Hot Rugby Player. I soon realized when I looked at the side mirror though that the position was more than awkward, it was missionary. Great: I’d turned Friday night yoga into a live sex show.
HRP1: Release your legs let me push. Keep flexing
Kyoko is rarely lost for words but she stood there with her mouth ajar with the rest of the class’s mouths similarly positioned.
HRP1 kept pushing. I kept flexing. He kept grunting. I kept moaning. It was the perfect relationship…..except that there were 30 other people in the room watching. Finally the pain began to subside.
Kyoko: Everyone, I think we might leave the class there. Keep breathing John.
If she told me to focus, I would have hit her. HRP1 slowly let my legs come back down. Kyoko gave me some water.
HRP: Turn on your stomach. Let me just massage your legs.
Kyoko smirked again: I’ll leave you two to it.
HRP massaged and I desperately tried not to think of any lustful thoughts which may have lead to completely losing my dignity once I stood up. When the room had cleared, we started chatting.
His name was Scott. He was 25 and was studying physiotherapy at Melbourne University. I detected a slight American accent and he said that he moved to Australia from LA when he was ten. He was father is Croatian and his mother is French. So my French rugby player comparison wasn’t far off.
Standing up on my jelly legs, I decided to throw caution to the wind and have a friendly crack: So does this mean we’re going out now?
Expecting a stuttering blushing straight man response, without a blink he said: “ Ha ha…nah. I already have a boyfriend.”
He winked and walked off.
C
6 comments:
Oh dear - just when your brain is succeeding staying focused the calf muscles had to sabotage the whole thing!
I've never understood the concept of Bikram yoga. You might sweat "out the toxins" but then things such as leg cramping will occur because you are working out in such extreme heat. Cramps can also be brought on through dehydration. Bacteria just love the heat! Sorry I couldn't offer anything more positive on Bikram.
I too get distracted by some of the men that come to my yoga classes. Having seen your profile pic I can't see your so called "Tontine physique". You look good to me. You either hide it well or you put yourself down using self deprecating humour.
Cheers, Denys.
I'm sitting here at work, reading your hilarious tale, trying to stifle my laughter and ending up snuffling like an asthmatic and choking half to death!
OH and DAMN DAMN DAMN about him already having a b/f!!! Bugger...I was sooooo willing a happy ending to this tale! He sounds McDreamy!!! ;-)
but long distance relationships never work....
yes I too go to Yoga classes =
I am like uncooked spaghetti whereas, even at the beginner classes, everyone else is like cooked spaghetti !!
Great story , again, tho! lol
What a wonderful recap of the night's festivities, er...exercises. You have a great sense of humor in your prose. I so would have had a woody after standing up and what balls you had to ask if that meant you were going out now. And what jealousy expressed by Kyoko ("Yes the two protagonists of World War II wrapped into one woman’s body.")...too funny!
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