6. Callie
CHAPTER 6
CALLIE
I was hoping Ana was all talk, but both bathrooms in our condo are occupied when I head out the door with my early morning caffeine in hand, and shortly after I open the yoga studio to students, Marissa and Ana come strolling in, yoga mats under their arms.
“I let her borrow my spare mat,” Marissa explains.
Ana’s eyes immediately roam the room, but I save her the trouble. “He’s not here yet. He usually rolls in right before I start.”
“Pity,” she says. “Where should we set up?”
“Anywhere you’d like. People used to generally stick to the same spots, but as the class has grown this week, it’s a free for all.”
Ana nudges Marissa. “Let’s stay in the back. Might be easier to watch him from there.”
“You’re supposed to watch the instructor,” I tease, pointing to my chest, before turning to go back to my mat.
The room fills up quickly, and is as crowded as predicted. When Mr. Hot & Cold finally strolls in, he stops just a few feet inside the doorway, unsuccessfully looking around for an open space.
I go over to ask a few women to adjust their mats to help create a spot for him, and they happily do so, seemingly delighted that he’s going to be their neighbor. In response to my assistance, the man offers me one of his Stone Age grunts.
He’s in a snug army green tank top today, and his shoulders are a sight to behold. His pecs do an incredible job of making his shirt look like the best piece of clothing that was ever crafted.
But then there’s his scowl. Unlike Ana, I’m not a fan of a grumpy demeanor, though I do have to begrudgingly admit that if a frown looks good on anyone, it’s him.
On my way back to the front, I steal a glance at my roommates. Marissa’s eyes are still fixed on the man, while Ana’s fanning herself and mimicking wiping drool from her mouth. I never should have mentioned this guy to them.
I think the only reason I brought him up is because his behavior at the sandwich shop was so puzzling. And I have to admit, the incongruity of his actions irritates me. Even though I don’t want him to flirt with me, and I definitely don’t want him to ask me out, it’s rude that he’s all charming one day and barely acknowledges me the next.
I get class started by having everyone close their eyes as I guide them through a few rounds of deep breathing. My goal is for them to go inward, but it’s a struggle. I catch several women peeking, covertly checking out Mr. H&C as he sits there looking like he’s being tortured.
He’s handsome, sure, but what’s all the fuss about?
Next, we move through a flow series, starting out slowly and gradually picking up the pace, occasionally lingering in certain poses to fine-tune them and go deeper. For each, I offer a couple of modified versions, so that practitioners with different ranges of flexibility can find what works best for them.
Not surprisingly, the one man in the class, probably the person with the least flexibility, persists in struggling through the advanced variations of each of the poses, as if he’s an expert after one week. The size of men’s egos never ceases to amaze me.
We’re currently in a standing pose, a wide-legged forward bend. Some of the women have taken hold of their big toes as their heads dangle close to their mats. Others who aren’t as flexible place foam blocks on the floor, so they don’t have to stretch as far to make steady contact.
Mr. H&C is clearly unsteady, the occasional contact between his fingertips and his mat tenuous at best. But even though I demonstrated using blocks if needed, he persists without any aids. His knees are locked, even after I remind him to soften them.
The man is stiff. And that’s an unfortunate choice of words, since I don’t need Ana’s dirty mind to prompt me to think about what other stiff parts of him might look like.
It’s harder swearing off men than I thought it would be. Most of the time, my resolve is strong, but moments of weakness keep popping up like a hormonal game of whack-a-mole.
Despite my best efforts, my body craves men, and I don’t even know why, because in my experience, sex isn’t as great as people say it is. My orgasms were few and far, far between when I was with Rick. On three separate occasions, I had to show him where my clit was, and he wasn’t dumb, so I should have realized a lot sooner that he just didn’t care.
I can and do get myself off, but it only serves as mild stress relief. I don’t understand the fireworks and earth shaking and all that colorful jazz that people rhapsodize about. I’m convinced it’s all exaggeration.
Circulating around the room, I help people transition into a revolved pose, with one arm pointing to the ceiling, the other toward the ground.
Mr. H&C is steady in this pose, and the extended arm is …well, it’s something to see. He may be new to yoga, but he’s obviously no stranger to the gym. Without meaning to, I speculate about how far my fingers could stretch around his bicep. I have a strong urge to find out, but luckily, my willpower prevails.
His backside is looking very nice, too. And those thighs. So thick.
Move on, Callie! Move on. Deciding he needs no adjustment, I turn away and focus on other students, even as, in the back of my mind, I’m speculating about using part of my next paycheck to buy a new vibrator.
I make my way over to Marissa, who seems to be enjoying herself in the poses, and Ana, who’s still mostly ogling Mr. H&C. I guess I can’t blame her.
When I get within range, she curls her finger, beckoning me closer. “I’m gonna talk to him after class,” she whispers too loudly.
I lean in right next to her ear, so only she can hear me. “This is not a bar. You’re not supposed to come to class to pick up men.”
This earns me an odd look. “I may not have a health club membership, but I know what goes on while people are working out together. While they’re all hot and sweaty, lifting and flexing, squatting and thrusting?—”
It’s bad enough that Ana’s talking in yoga class, which is usually a quiet environment, but it’s worse yet that she acts out these last couple of comments, thrusting her hips forward and back, a lewd grin on her face.
“Ana! Shh!” I whisper a harsh, “Don’t do it!” before I call out another pose for the class and move away from my horny friend.
I’m distracted for the rest of the sequence, certain that my roommate won’t heed my warning, and wondering what kind of response she’ll get when she approaches him. Will he stay in morning grump mode, which she’ll no doubt enjoy, or will he show her some of that evening charm?
Why does the thought of either response make me feel oddly possessive about him?
I guide everyone through the end of the flow series, then down onto the floor for a few twists, before it’s time for the pose that ends every yoga class, shavasana, also known as corpse pose.
Outwardly, it’s incredibly simple. All someone needs to do is lie flat on their back, eyes closed, and remain still for the duration, which is usually only five minutes, depending on the class.
It’s many people’s favorite part, a reward for hard work, a chance to relax amidst a hectic day. It has mental, physical, and emotional benefits that stay with a person long after class is over, which is why I’m at first alarmed, and then incredibly irritated when I see Mr. H&C roll onto his side, extract his phone from a pocket—phones are, of course, not allowed in class—and start tapping at his screen.
He’s doing all of this quietly, and no one around him seems to be disturbed, but it’s still incredibly disrespectful.
Moving as quietly as I can, I cross over to him and wave my arms until I get his attention. Brace yourself for this surprise: When he looks up at me, he’s … frowning.
I frown right back at him, shaking my head and slashing a finger across my throat before I silently mouth, “Put your phone away.”
Dividing his attention between me and the screen, he holds up a finger, mouthing back, “Work.” He continues typing away for several more seconds, ignoring my glare, before he finally slips his device back where it came from.
I wait for him to at least have the decency to look apologetic, but instead he simply settles back onto the mat, knees bent, eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling as if he’s counting down the seconds until class is over.
Sure enough, the moment I bring everyone to a sitting position, say a few nice words to the class, and end with a “Namaste,” the man bolts from the room, not even bothering to roll up his lender mat, much less put it back in the closet where it belongs.
When Ana sees him leave, she pouts like a kid who dropped her lollipop. I’m surprised she doesn’t run after him.
“He’s such a hottie,” Marissa says after everyone else has left except for her and Ana.
“He was texting during class, and he left this for me to take care of. He’s a jerk.” I finish rolling up his mat, my mood saltier than all of the sweat on the blue PVC.
“Maybe he’s a high-powered exec,” Ana speculates. “A billionaire who had to jump in to save an international deal from going south right at the last minute.”
“A billionaire? Here in this town? Let me guess …is that what the hero’s like in the book you’re currently reading?”
She shakes her head. “Not my current read, but one of my favorites.”
I shove the mat back onto the shelf along with the set of blocks I gave him but he never used. “Or maybe he’s just an ordinary guy who’s incredibly inconsiderate.”
“You should have given him your number when he had his phone out,” Ana says, completely ignoring me.
“You can’t tell me you don’t think he’s cute,” Marissa says.
“I need someone who’s not just good looking. They have to have a good personality, too.”
Marissa shoots me a sly grin, catching my words before I even realize what I’ve said.
I rush to correct myself. “That’s if I wanted a man. Which I don’t. Not at all.”