Wes and Yoga

She was right, the barista with the dark eyes and the mocking tongue. It did taste like warm ice cream. Still, I can't bring myself to throw away the $4.63 worth of curdled milk. I still don't understand why people keep drinking this crap, but there must be something to it, or why would everyone else be holding the same cups? I'll figure it out eventually.

I'm late for my yoga class. My old high school buddies would laugh if they could see me, with a too-tight tank top and trendy little jogging pants. You know, the kind without the elastic at the bottom. Elastic isn't hip; the lady at Lululemon assured me of that. I can't blame my old buddies, these days I'm getting more male attention than female. It doesn't help that my yoga class is in the middle of Davie Village... aka, Gay Central. I'm a little uncomfortable around here, but I try not to show it. I'm trying to be more enlightened, ever since I was having drinks with my landlord and he told me the biker chick next door was gay. Okay, so knocking over my rye wasn't the most graceful response.

Too bad, though. She's pretty hot. I'm told that "you just haven't found the right cock" isn't a good pickup line for dykes. Wonder what might work better?

I can't get sex off my mind. If you went to my yoga class, neither would you. Have you seen these women? These perfect little tight bodies in their perfect little tight shorts? I think that's why I still go. It can't be so that I can make my body into the perfect Eagle pose, that's for sure. Look ma, I'm a bird.

I've got my mind on another type of bird, thanks.

There's one particular girl, I usually position myself behind her. This way, I can watch her in the mirrors, and it looks like I'm watching myself. She's something else. A lot of the women in my class have that sweaty, disheveled look afterwards. Not her. Every blonde hair is still perfectly placed, her little pink lips still exquisitely made up. She usually wears these ultra-short shorts and a sports bra that usually only look good on mannequins, but on her... I just want to bend her over her yoga mat and well, you get the idea.

I really should try to get her name first. Maybe offer to buy her a latte.

By the time I get to class, the spot behind her is taken. I glare at the skinny dude with the blonde-tipped hair behind her, and find an unoccupied spot far behind her, and well to the left. No staring at her today, it would be too obvious. I've missed the first 10 minutes and worry briefly about pulling a muscle. Gently resting my latte next to my mat, I join the class with a perfectly executed Eagle pose. Damn, I'm good.