Yoga Me Sexy

Sexy Metta

Posted by on Jun 21, 2012

I knew this would happen some day. I’d be scheduled to show up as an erotica writer and my Cancer crab would show up instead, the part of me that needs to crawl into my shell and hide, claws waiting to pinch anyone who gets too close. But I couldn’t retreat into my shell last weekend.  I had signed up to read my yogic self-pleasuring essay at the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival. So the inner dialogue last week looked a little like this: The Crab: I can’t think of anything worse than stepping up on a stage and showing myself like that. I’m not going. The Erotica Writer: Don’t do this to me. The Crab:  I’m tired from work and I really need to be alone.  I don’t know what to wear.  Seattle is six hours away.  I’m not going. The Erotica Writer:  Don’t fucking do this to me. Thankfully, on Friday night The Yoga Teacher showed up. She peeled off my work clothes and guided me to sit naked in front of my meditation alter.  She opened the windows and invited a warm breeze to caress my skin as she lit candles and whispered a modified version of the loving kindness metta in my ear, over and over again. May I be filled with loving kindness May I be well May I be peaceful and at ease May I feel sexy She honored The Crab with all that quiet darkness. She honored The Erotica Writer by reminding her of the very essence of the story she was scheduled to share, a poetic essay about embracing the sensuality of the self through yoga. She guided us through a gentle vinyasa flow. It worked. When I stepped on that stage the next day in my magenta batik yoga pants, black spaghetti-strap tank and vintage suede boots (that unlike last year, fit as a tight as a glove) I felt empowered, sexy and excited to share my work. I was still nervous, unaccustomed as I am to being in the spotlight on a dark stage reading about masturbating in front of an audience.  My voice and legs only did that adrenaline tremor thing for the first two paragraphs and then mellowed out.  This is progress. But the point is…I did it. I showed up for The Erotica Writer. And now The Crab gets to scurry into this cool, dark, new moon...

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Yoga Me Sexy

Posted by on Mar 21, 2012

Yoga is officially sexy. I had two articles forwarded to me last month. They both were about yoga.  They both mentioned sex. Because the two are as intertwined as your arms and legs in Eagle Pose. I’ve attached the links below for your reading pleasure, but I’ll go ahead and extract some of the juicy parts for you. The first link is from an NPR Fresh Air show featuring William J. Broad the author of the recently published book “The Science of Yoga: The Risks and Rewards.”  There’s lots of great information in the story, but of course I honed in on this quote from Broad about yoga practitioners: “…people see rises in sex hormones — particularly in testosterone — brain waves getting zipped up in the same way that lovers’ brains look when they’re in deep pleasure.” And this one: “…recently, there were studies in India where they looked at married couples who took up yoga and surveyed them before and after. Across the board, it’s improvement in desire, arousal, orgasm, overall satisfaction. Men have better erections. Women feel more emotional closeness with partners. It definitely does lots of good stuff.” The second link is from a New York Times article written by Broad that discussed the latest sex scandal in the yoga world and why it keeps happening. Turns out the marriage of yoga and sex goes back to its origins in Tantra. Even though the founders of modern yoga tried to shift the focus towards health and fitness, evidently the ancient eroticism inherent in the practice just keeps rising. Like an erection. Bond writes: “…many have discovered from personal experience that the practice can fan the sexual flames. Pelvic regions can feel more sensitive and orgasms more intense. …scientists are investigating how yoga and related practices can foster autoerotic bliss. It turns out that some individuals can think themselves into states of sexual ecstasy — a phenomenon known clinically as spontaneous orgasm and popularly as “thinking off.” I’ve been practicing yoga for twelve years. It’s all true. Now that I think about it, I started writing erotica about the same time I started practicing yoga regularly. Yoga not only quieted my inner critic and my inner Catholic girl, it awakened my clitoris and my erotic voice. So if your mat has been rolled up in the corner of your living room for a while, now you have one more very compelling reason to roll it out. Sexy Links: Transcript of Bond’s interview on NPR Yoga Fans Sexual...

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Morning Stretch

Posted by on Nov 20, 2011

Alarms clocks are so not sexy.   Especially at 5:30 am on a Monday. I resist the urge to pull on some cotton Hanes and faded sweats to match my mood. I do it for the blog. I open my top drawer and go for the lace. I dig around until I find some curve-hugging yoga pants and an old favorite party shirt that has been relegated to sexy lounge wear status. It’s velvety, blue and still has some breast clinging capacity. When I stumble into the kitchen, my man has his coffee dripping and my green tea steeping.  We carry them out on the front porch to wake up with the sky. The morning air is sweet and unseasonably warm, one last breath of Indian summer. When the sun rises, too yellow and bright, we retreat into our living room to stretch. In the first few years of our relationship, we never made it very far with our yoga practice. There was something about  my hips pushing up and back into downward dog.  Our practice would go from spiritual to carnal in one slow, mutual exhalation. We’ve been married seven years now and recreating hard on this planet for over forty.  The need to stretch our bodies often over rides our need to orgasm them, especially on a Monday morning when we are trying to sneak in a hike before work. We stay on task and get through twenty minutes of stretching and then move into some sit ups. After a set of fifty I am hot, so I pull off my shirt and yoga pants. I must admit I’m pretty pleased with myself when I look down my torso and see a leopard-spotted thong and a lacey black bra. I roll over and knock out a set of push ups before stretching my hips towards my heels for child’s pose. Pounce. As my man nuzzles my neck, I remember images from our Bliss viewing the night before. I can tell by the long, slow strokes across my leopard spots that he is too. I end up with rug burns for the first time in years. I think this blog is...

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