July 29, 2004
Beware of the Yoga Waif
She can kill you anytime she wants, but she is powerful because she chooses not to.
I can tell.
I would like to think it is out of respect for life, but in my heart I believe it is because by the end of the class I am sweaty and smelly in ways I forgot I could be. I even offend myself. So what got me here? It was Yoga Waif of course. And blind, dumb ass, stupid male ego.
Background time. I’ve been away from my gym for the better part of a year now. The reasons were many. Changed schedules, divorce and the unexpected surprises of life that I had allowed to get in the way. But two weeks ago I renewed my membership and have been diligently going. And I’ve been quite happy with the progress thank you very much. Until tonight’s humbling experience that is.
Yoga Waif had been at the gym virtually every time I was in the past. And truth be told she is an amazing person. If I was ever able to work out as hard and with as much dedication as her I’d in way better shape than I am now. Hell, I’d be teaching the Governor of California how to work out. But I’m not yet. Her grace and strength is way beyond the norm. She’s about five feet two inches tall and maybe a hundred pounds. To top it all off, she’s a really nice person. And NO!!! I was not trying to pick her up. I was actually being a decent human being.
It can happen you know.
So there I was two days ago, lifting vast quantities of heavy metal. Doing what you’re supposed to do which is pose to the extent of your physique in between sets. And Yoga Waif came up and greeted me with a smile and asked where I had been. So I told her a wee bit about this past year and then she asked me if I wanted to try the power yoga class she was about to teach. I said that I might check it out.
Power Yoga. Uh huh. Sure. That sounds sort of like, tasty tofu. A contradiction in terms. How tough can it be?
Minute one: This is nice. Slow breathing, getting in touch with my spine and lungs.
Minute five: Hmm…balancing and stretching and making circles with my arms and toes.
Minute seven: AAAAGGGHHH!!! Ow! Fuck! Ow! Something inside the back of my left leg is going to explode any second now.
Minute twelve: I will not let them see me suffer I keep thinking. But who the hell am I kidding. The room is lined with mirrors. They can all tell. I know. At least I haven’t cried out yet.
Minute fifteen: I have now cried out seven times. I can’t stand straight anymore because my joints feel like they have been filled with hot sand. I am getting cramps in the soles of my feet. When I said I wanted to die in a room filled with women, this is not what I meant.
Minute twenty: Yoga Waif appears to be floating on her own stack of invisible energy waves. I don’t think she has actually touched the ground in minutes now. Watching her is like watching a fight scene from the Matrix. She isn’t sweating. Other women are sweating and grunting like I am. How does she do that??
Minute thirty: The secret to yoga appears to be the acceptance of nervous collapse. My pain receptors have shut down. It is easy now. I feel the rapture coming on.
Minute sixty: What? It’s over? Yoga Waif is telling us how well we did. She even made a point of saying so directly to me.
Wow. Power Yoga. No kidding. I’m going back.
Go ahead. Call me a “Girlyman” if you want. And if you do, my friend Yoga Waif will kick your sorry ass.
~ AP
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Mike Tyson is a stripper in Nanaimo
Holy shit! I swear to god if it isn’t Iron Mike himself then it could be his tougher, stronger sister or brother. The jury is still hangin’ on that one. Or perhaps I should have titled this one: “A Nightmare on Church Street.” Am I sounding like a crazy man waiting for his meds to kick in? Probably. Therefore some explanations are in order.
It all started simply enough. A normal rite of the Canadian male. “Birthday Beers and Boobs” Simple enough and so it should have been. Drive 45 minutes to the stripper bar, have two or three beer and then slip over to a restaurant for a nice dinner with my friend and his family and finish the evening in a wholesome way back at his place.
Ahh….the best laid plans of mice and men…..
We arrived at the expected time and went on in. The bartender / waitress was sweet, with the nicest smile I’d seen in a while. Great personality too. Excellent customer service skills. Oh yeah, and really great tits. These were “11’s” If she was an elk, she’d be described as having a 12 point rack. Am I obsessing? Do I sound creepy? I have to because I am clinging to the last moment of normalcy in our lives for nearly two and a half hours.
We turned to find a seat and saw that a dancer had just taken to the stage to begin her routine. It was anything but.
Now don’t get me wrong here. It is a blessed world and a wonderful thing that girls come in all shapes and sizes. And I have come in all shapes and sizes of girls. Or so I thought. A black chick (Afro American to all you politically correct snot rags) standing about six foot two and possessing a physique more like a middle linebacker than a cheerleader, this girl began her routine. She was fascinating to watch.
Until the fear began to set in.
Sure she was “enhanced.” No big deal. Many strippers are. But it was the aquamarine glowing mini lights in her nipple rings that set the stage for a serious mind fuck. She was able to hold herself on the pole by one arm bent at a perfect 90 degrees. I can’t do that and I’m in damn good shape. We were getting intimidated and felt the need to watch the show lest she get insulted and come over and crush our skulls like empty beer cans. She started slapping her ass. Hard. Once. Twice. And a third ear splitting time. By now we could barely hold our mugs still. We were shaking so much the beer was getting foamy again. Normally I try to make eye contact with the girls working the stage. Not now. Not this time. The only contact my brain could imagine with this Amazonian whirling Dervish was FULL contact. And I knew in the pit of my churning gut that that would be a contest I would surely lose. She would terminate me with extreme prejudice. I knew it like my own name and the fear was getting worse.
When the final garment was removed I looked only long enough to insure myself of a lack of a penis. The clit ring suggested gender confirmation. But the deep bassoon voice asking the poor squirming bastards in Gyno row if they liked her black pussy was just too much to bear. The question screaming in our heads, “What the fuck are we doing here?!?!” But still we held out.
Sure enough she left the stage and we breathed a sigh of relief, each of us with reconfirmed masculinity unquestioned in our hearts.
“More beer!!” we cried, and sure enough two beautiful jugs arrived at the table along with the beer.
“Now it gets better,” I assured him, still freaked out by the whole experience. By this time we figured the dancer had been in the merchant marine, pissed off some Sultan and had an unexpected cock chop experience followed by breast implants and a new career. We laughed and chuckled, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the next girl who would surely embody the feminine charms we had come to see.
“Holy Fucking Shit, sweet Jesus say it isn’t so,” we both whispered to no one in particular as our muscle bound huntress retook the stage. Things were getting seriously strange. It was like groundhog day but with a giant, baby eating wild boar instead of a happy little rodent. It couldn’t be real and yet it was happening again.
We ran. We ran so far away. Like a flock of seagulls we flew out of the booth and did the only smart thing two deeply paranoid beer drinkers could think of. We bought some cigarettes and went out to the smoking patio so we didn’t have to watch the show again. And we weren’t alone. Others were copying us. The pack instinct had set in and we knew there was safety in numbers. Of course like antelope on the veldt, we ran into a box canyon to wait our fate. The smoking patio had tall walls and so I had picked out my victim if required. Rule of the jungle man. If she attacked, she would catch the slowest one first and hopefully stay occupied long enough for the others to escape. Some poor kid in a skateboard shirt was teetering on the brink of existence and he didn’t even know it. I had his knee all lined up.
And then it got weirder.
We went back down to see the next show, since we really had nowhere else to be until the family arrived for the dinner date. It can’t happen three times can it? Our nerves were on edge already and when she came into the bar again we almost began to weep. But she sat down at a table with fat old white guy and we didn’t stay long enough to see if they left together, may the lord protect his soul.
It turns out that the six o’clock girl got fired, on the spot just minutes before her show, my friend’s birthday show, because she had a nice little puppy in her room. Road companionship. Something important for a girl working her clubs. And so I say now to the world, the owner of the Globe Hotel in Nanaimo is a fucking asshole. Hey asshole owner, FUCK YOU!!! And good luck to the sweetheart who got the bum deal. You were nice.
So off we went to dinner and it was wonderful. Good food, good company, good God we were back in another stripper bar for two reasons. First a delaying tactic to allow time for dessert to be prepared before getting my friend back home. Second, we still hadn’t seen any boobs, butt or bush and we were concerned about the obviously fraying fabric of the universe. But we got lucky at Porky’s (yes…it’s real name). Two gorgeous strippers and a free peek at a hooker’s breast.
Yep a hooker stopping off at the bar to see if she could pick up something other than a disease. She was actually quite pleasant, flashing us and comfortably discussing her business. “$180 per hour,” she said.
I quickly worked it out in my head at $10 per tooth in hers.
The madness had to stop.
We left and got him home and had some delicious dessert. Presents were opened and good cheer enveloped all of creation.
I went home to bed, reminded once again by the evening’s events that “Brutish” is not a desirable quality in a girl. As good as her makeup was, she was indeed, yet too brutish.
~ AP
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