By Kelly Kreth
sixthflrwalkup@aol.com

Yoga class is about to begin, or is it?  As always at the Y, which is, in fact, nothing more than an old high school filled with musty classrooms, there’s a problem. Our classroom isn’t vacant.  The 10 of us are waiting impatiently for the chance to contort our bodies into awkward positions.

But instead of my temper flaring, I notice he is there and he is smiling...at me. I go over to the man I’ve been scoping out recently and try hard to be pleasant.  We have spoken, briefly, before and after the last few classes. The last time he asked for my card and later sent me an email; I responded. 

So of course I’m tingly that he is there and wished I was not always wearing yoga clothes and sneakers around him, my hair in a too nonchalant ponytail, and too conscious of my smeared lipstick. As I sidle up I am nervous. There’s an awkwardness of not knowing if he is as attracted as I am. He is still wet slightly from the pool as he has just swam laps downstairs. Mr. Yoga’s worn T-shirt is damp and see-through. I want him so badly to shiver.

When I first saw him, several classes ago, I immediately took notice. First, because he was a man and there really are no men at the Y, especially in yoga. Secondly, because he was a good looking, seemingly straight man (the few men that are at the Y are flaming or geriatric). Thirdly, because he seemed oddly social and happy, with a charisma about him we see most often in political figures or rock stars.

Last class he walked me to the subway and lingered. Come on now, you know what I mean by lingering, don’t you? When there isn’t much to say but the excitement-tinged silences are enough to keep you on edge for a week.

I like his eyes, or rather the skin around them. There is a wisdom and deepness that is conveyed by the lines around his dark, tired eyes. When I first saw him I didn’t really look at him closely. I thought he was young—too young. But, then as we talked, I stared into his eyes and there were worlds in them. He was much older than I thought.

I mention my travel woes to him and he leans in and hugs me, patting my back. What should have been friendly made me horny. I momentarily feel guilty because I like HW better, but he doesn’t want to be a boyfriend, so I tell myself I shouldn’t feel bad about being left to my own devices.

So our arms were touching now and there are other students are all around us, a chaotic chatter our music. The teacher comes and says she will run down and find a new classroom number. I am glad for the extra time to talk to him.

Shortly the teacher comes back and announces we will be in a classroom down the hall. The others move inside to grab mats and instead I grab his arm; it was warm and alive under my touch.

I ask him many questions with my eyes, but only one out loud. “Will you come upstairs for a second...I need you to see something.” “But Kelly,” he responds, “Class is about to begin and the 6th floor is closed at this time of night. There’s just a bunch of dark empty classrooms.” “Look, it’s really important and it will just take a minute,” I urged, as I had one—an urge, that is.

We run up the stairs like teenagers and are both slightly out of breath. “See, everything is closed,” he says, confused. “No, come down here...it’s in here that I want you to see,” I said, dragging him into a classroom at the end of the long bend of the dark corridor. I open the door, hearing the old door squeak and so excited I am that I feel like I am breaking into a house whose alarm may go off at any moment. I feel that I may have to go to the bathroom at any second and that excites me even more. I pull him in and close the door behind us.

I push him to the far wall in a far corner and in a minute we are both far away. I wrap my arms around him. He is the perfect size, only a few inches taller than me. He is in his swim trunks and a worn undershirt, barefooted. I like the way he feels almost naked as I press my body up against his. I take his upper lip in mine and suck on it, drawing his body so close to mine I think he can feel my heart beat. He just stays stiff up against the cold, dank wall, until I part his lips with my tongue. Then all of a sudden he catches on and responds. I kiss him harder than I think he is prepared for and all of a sudden I stop. He sees the blue of my eyes from the glare coming in from the window. “Well, thanks for helping me with that...we better get downstairs before we miss the opening chant.”

“Forget it,” he murmurs as we skip class. His hands lift up my shirt and I take his off. I trace circles around his nipples and then lick them. With each movement the scent of chlorine is released and I put my hands in his bathing suit to make him feel my warmth. I breath in a pool and swim in him.

I think back to the first time I saw him in class three weeks ago. His mat was close to mine; at one point during a twist and stretch his shirt went up a bit and his shorts when down a bit and my mind wandered down the road made by the line of hair that lead up his chest and down his pants. I longed to see him naked and smell him and pull his hair a bit and suck on his earlobes and make him see me...really see me and feel the wiry energy in me that was enough to lift a truck. I wanted to make him squirm beneath me and push back as hard as he could, ripping. I wanted us to both act like outlaws.

We grab a yoga mat and he lays down next to me. In the dark he is stronger and more self-assured than in the bright, unforgiving fluorescent bulbs of the class. In the dark he is almost dirty. He feels rumpled under me, his discarded clothes old and faded, his stubble scratching my face and chest and I imagine his nails are uneven and may have dirt beneath.  And as the class downstairs must be giving its final chant, I am releasing one far more guttural.