Back to the onset

I thought back to that day in November. I’d returned home that evening, expecting to laugh about the whole situation.

Instead, Sarah was doing a private yoga lesson with one of her students. I’d seen him before. Nice guy. Fit but inflexible. Her studio advertises its non competitive yoga vibe, but it’s filled with Manhattanites who eat too little, exercise too much, make a lot of money and have abnormally low body fat measurements. It’s perfect for chanting about inner peace while doling out insecurity. But insecurity does mean more at-home private lessons for her. Those sessions pay better and are off the books (both from the yoga studio and the IRS), which allows her to pay her half of the rent.

I noticed the guy was wearing bike shorts and no shirt. No chest hair, no love handles. Graying at the temples. Hard to tell, but despite the obvious tendency for straight guys to go to pot in their 40’s, he still seemed hetero. It was a chilly November day, but we only have marginal control over our radiators, so our windows were open, and the sweat was dripping. I went to my bedroom to change clothes and then sat in the other corner of the L-shaped living room.

The guy was practicing handstands in the middle of the room. Each time, Sarah would step in to grab his legs as they wavered in the air. He’d hold himself aloft for a few seconds and fall back.

I, meanwhile, sat in a bean bag chair, looking at the book that I’d wanted to finish the night before. I was wearing the thinnest of white t shirts and the shortest of jogging shorts. I looked totally absorbed in my reading while watching for a reaction. I thought I noticed a reaction during his first hand stand. He did seem to be looking up my shorts—if he’d asked, I could have told him that, yes, I did know that crossing my legs would allow him to look, and I could have told him that, no, I wasn’t wearing panties, and that, yes, I am a liberal shaver, but while he was mutely looking at me, he was also focused on the headstand. He dropped.

After he sprung up again, with Sarah’s hands on his strong but trembling thighs, I watched those eyes as they took in my chest. Seeming preoccupied with my book, I very deliberately squeezed a nipple. It pooched sharply through the t shirt. They can be a hassle, but I’m secretly quite proud of my nipple erections.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched an erection grow in those tight bike shorts. Formidable. A home run hitter. Sarah noticed as well, and at the same moment that she glanced at my upper thighs and tits, she immediately let go of him, and the guy fell over backwards, crashing into Sarah’s small collection of Tibetan drums.