Fucking Yoga: Topless

No, I was not topless at yoga last night. It was a small class, which is what I like best, and a male yogi. Not the one I cried at, or the nice one, but a different guy. A guy who looks like he used to be a construction worker. Maybe he fell off a roof and hurt his back, which is why he turned to yoga after it helped him recover. Or maybe he directed traffic and got hit by a car, and then someone else who was also waiting for an MRI recommended yoga for the pain. But he definitely looks like he'd look damn good in some Timberlands and dusty jeans. While it's raining out... Oh. Excuse me.

Anyway. So we're starting the class, people are moving their mat an inch to the left, taking a last sip of whatever, shoving their hair into ponytails. And the Construction Yogi throws down a mat right across from me.

This is different. The other yogis don't use a mat, and don't get in line with the rest of the class. They do yoga poses in the middle of the room and walk around. I was confused by Construction Yogi's position. Was this class going to be run differently? Did I accidentally come to the wrong class? That's the moment when Construction Yogi whipped off his t-shirt, exposing the full intensity of his hotness to us all.

Sixty minutes later I picked my jaw up off the floor as he put his shirt back on. I wanted to close my eyes for the walk home, lest any other images get banked into my memory, and go promptly to sleep to have wonderful dreams about topless yoga.

But since it wasn't even 8pm I stayed awake a few more hours.