Confessions of a Yogi

No, really. I mean, breakup sex is totally off the hook amazing sort of awesome, especially for somebody who has been confined in a relationship, under-stimulated, or who is in great touch with their own body via a daily yoga practice and then spun loose back out into the fish tank of dating life.

I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but I’m gonna anyway because there is a reason I am glowing and it is not just downward facing dog. Like a bunch of dudes sitting around discussing inappropriate things, I feel I should share the smell of my sex hands and forever beaming bits. It is, after all, what this yoga stuff is all about, right? Taking it off the mat?

Where shall I begin? The hot married guy who wants to play in back alleys? The sexy soft swap threesome option beachside? The tall fit puppy that enjoys stargazing and understands a woman of her 30s has mad sex appeal? Or, the dashing older gentleman that is accomplished and looking for a travel companion? There is always that high school sweetheart of mine off in the wings too. Must I choose? As Dave would say, “It’s a typical situation in these typical times…”

Back Alley man is also very successful for all of his dark secrets. He likes to send naked photos and writes aggressive erotica about office trysts and make out sessions in Jeeps. He is willing to pay great money for my yoga services because he “wants to make the world a better place.” He is as about as gay boy scout as they come, and buttoned up so tight on paper that there is great satisfaction in knowing it is a total glass house he is living in.

Tactical and persistent, he is trying to woo me using the two tools a man of his breeding is accustomed to leveraging and winning with: money and intrigue. I let him beat me at online scrabble and berate him for saying things that show any kind of weakness in order to reel him in and then spit him out.

I behave like a mistress.

Not the sleep-with-your-husband kind (bad karma), but the works-in-a-dungeon kind of mistress. Pointy boots and riding crop optional. It is helpful that I did that once in New York City under the tutelage of a woman named Mermaid who also worked at a hookah bar down in alphabet city. Poking and prodding a caged lion is titillating.

Sexy Soft Swap Threesome is one of those things that will stay, as they say, “in the vault.” Mostly private and extremely provocative, there are just some things the universe wraps up in a bow and delivers to your stocking, in spite of having been a very, very bad girl. Incidentally, these tendencies are worshipped in this particular situation. My only confusion is who to make out with first.

Fit Puppy is gorgeous. His body intertwines with mine. He is listening and responding, sometimes before I know the question to ask or the shape and direction of my desire. His back is broad, legs long, torso is shaped in a pleasing and sturdy way. His lips, oh yes. His lips are all the things lips are meant to be: on time, evolving and forever enjoying and anticipating. This is a pretty bird, a mating bird—the kind of bird that enjoys playing in the bath. For a dirty girl like me, this is just the sort of thing I should not pass up. It’s true what they say; I deserve it.

Dashing Dapper Dude has many of the things you would want in a man: bold, driven, popular, handsome, gregarious, attentive and passionate. He loves to travel and he understands there are three things we all need in a companion: safety, chemistry and communication. I shall investigate this one further.

Finally, there is the one that got away, or perhaps, didn’t. The one I’ve pined for, and of course he never gave a second look.  It could be one of those fancy Facebook-reunion-made-for-TV kind of stories if he didn’t have a brood of children living with him in a place clear across the globe.

Beyond a few practical annoyances, there is a sweet vindication in reconnecting with someone to whom all your fantasies lead back. Fantasies revolving around rocking chairs and afternoon horseback rides, with smells of hay and bourbon, from a youth that is long past, before I’d ever felt the stain of heartbreak.

In a small ocean front town far north of the Crazy Keys, situations like these don’t actually exist. I am therefore relegated to the enjoyment of such textures in my meditations and dreamscapes, though persistently I listen for the opportunity to live out these desires of my mind in the flesh. Perhaps I will walk into our local wine bar and find myself engulfed in an independent film with subtitles and naked people, in which I am the star.

I wake wondering what is real and what is fantasy. So vivid are these dreams and meditations it’s become hard to distinguish between the two. These images are so foreign to the previously engaged woman I once was, that I go searching for erotica more palatable than 50 Shades in order to quench this new thirst.

Flooded with prana, and limber from my practice, I walk around half expecting to see one of these muses at my front door with a kitten or a plane ticket.

“Did that actually happen?” I ask.

What is the real and what is the dream? Is it possible to have such an experience so that I can proclaim “breakup sex is awesome!” and have the proof to back up my claim?! Pretty please, dear Universe, with a cherry on top.

Wherever these musings originate from, I’ll take it. This single girl needs something to be excited about, and if manifesting starts with intention and mantra, then I commit these desires to word and send them out into the ether with one caveat: Bring It!

 

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Editor: Jennifer Spesia

 

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