Chapter Seven
Unclench, Breathe, Scream
They’re spread out in a semi-circle on the sacred rage mats I bought off Etsy three years ago and blessed last night with lavender spray and an emergency prayer. I don’t know what I expected, maybe some mild stretching, a few cathartic groans, some deep exhalations followed by light weeping, but now that I’m standing in front of all five of them, shirtless or near-shirtless in various states of brooding, coiled masculine tension, I realize something very important:
I have made a mistake.
A sexy, sweaty, deeply unstable mistake.
Because Rage Yoga? was never meant to be done with five emotionally constipated, spiritually unhinged, and aggressively attractive men. This was supposed to be a novelty class, a chaotic little “scream therapy meets core work” hybrid that I invented during a late-night Pinterest spiral and now, somehow, I am leading it like it’s the final boss level of tantric frustration.
“Welcome,” I say, barefoot on the mat, trying to sound wise and not wildly turned on. “Today’s session is about embodied release. You’re going to move, breathe, clench, and rage-purge your internal fire.”
Jax smirks like he’s already won.
Miles raises an eyebrow like this is beneath him, which, of course, makes me want to personally push his third eye open with two fingers and a lot of inappropriate thoughts.
Asher is practically vibrating with anticipation, clutching a towel and whispering, “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
Seb is silent. Still. Arms folded. Watching me like I’m a very complex tree he’s trying to decide whether to climb or burn down.
And Jonah? Jonah is sitting in hero’s pose like he was born to emotionally sweat through his secrets in front of me. Calm. Steady. Bare chest barely rising. Eyes half-lidded like he already knows he’s going to ruin me with breathwork alone.
I swallow, smile tightly, and raise my arms overhead.
“Let’s begin with a low warrior,” I say, voice trembling only slightly. “Left foot forward, right leg extended back. Sink into your hips. Arms up. And now... growl.”
There’s a pause.
Miles blinks. “Pardon?”
“This is Rage Yoga,” I say sweetly. “We don’t just hold tension, we purge it. With sound. With breath. With primal expression.”
Asher lets out a hesitant little “grrr” like an apologetic golden retriever.
Jax full-on growls like he’s about to bite someone.
Miles makes a noise that might be a sigh of pure disdain, but he still sinks into the pose, and I hate how well he moves. Controlled. Precise. Like every inch of him is clenching something deep and expensive.
“Feel the burn,” I say, walking among them, adjusting postures. “Feel the resistance. Then make it scream.”
Jax’s growl deepens.
Asher’s turns into a wheezy bark.
Seb exhales. One long, slow, gravel-deep breath that sounds more like thunder rumbling through moss than anything else, and I feel it in my spine.
And Jonah? Jonah makes no sound. Until I get close.
“Jonah,” I say, stopping beside him. “You’re too tight through the shoulders. Let me...”
I place my hands on him.
His body is warm. Solid. Muscles tense beneath my fingertips like they want to soften but haven’t been given permission in years.
“You have to let it out,” I murmur, moving his arms gently, guiding his reach. “Growl. Scream. Whatever comes up.”
He turns his head slowly, just enough to glance at me, and says in a voice so quiet it hums, “What if what comes up is dangerous?”
My knees almost buckle.
I move on before I confess something deeply inappropriate about fantasies involving eucalyptus oil and power dynamics.
“Downward dog,” I bark. “Everyone. Breathe into your hips. Sigh. Moan. Growl. Get it out.”
Five men, bent over, groaning, panting, sweating.
It is a spiritual gangbang of unprocessed trauma and glute engagement.
Jax moans on purpose.
Asher giggles and then moans accidentally.
Miles refuses to make a sound but grits his teeth like I know he’s clenching more than his ego.
Seb releases another breath that sounds like he’s exorcising a whole childhood wound.
Jonah sighs, slow and deep, and I have to turn around to avoid openly fanning myself with my own mat.
We move through three more poses, fists of fire, lion’s breath, pigeon of grief, and by the time I get them into seated twist and tell them to “punch the air while naming what hurt them,” I am shaking with both laughter and lust.
Jax punches and yells, “My dad!”
Asher whispers, “My sixth grade gym teacher.”
Miles doesn’t punch. He just says, “This retreat,” under his breath and cracks his neck like that was his exorcism.
Seb mutters, “Myself.”
Jonah doesn’t punch. He lifts his fist. Holds it. Closes his eyes. Then says quietly, “Trust.”
It lands like a thunderclap.
I almost cancel the rest of the night and lie face down in the lavender field for the rest of my life.
But I can’t. Because this is only phase one.
I have to lead these sweaty, cursed, gorgeously damaged men into a group eucalyptus steam purge now.
And I don’t know what’s going to come out of that tent... but I have a feeling it won’t be sanity.
The steam dome is glowing like the inside of a jungle god’s mouth. The scent of eucalyptus clings to the air like judgment, thick and holy and a little bit medicinal in the way herbal things always are when you’re trying to pretend they’re not just there to make you feel something. Eucalyptus is like emotional napalm. Let it burn, baby
I sit at the edge of the circle, wrapped in a thin white towel that is sticking to parts of me I haven’t spiritually processed in years. My hair is pulled up in a messy topknot that feels like a war flag. I’m sweating, vibrating, unraveling slowly like some ceremonial cinnamon bun in a spa for the emotionally overpowered.
The men are seated in a rough circle around me.
Jax, shirtless and glistening like some kind of forbidden mountain spring. He’s sprawled with his legs wide and arms resting on his knees like he’s waiting to be worshipped or arrested, and I don’t know which would be worse.
Asher, wide-eyed and very pink, clearly struggling to regulate his temperature, his hydration, and his inner monologue. His towel is perfectly arranged. He looks like he’s trying not to cry or pass out. Possibly both.
Seb, silent, upright, eyes closed, the steam rolling over his skin like he’s made of wood and storm clouds and possibly regret carved into human form.
Miles, unimpressed by heat, discomfort, or the concept of spiritual detox. His hair is slicked back, his jaw tight, his gaze unreadable. He is the definition of “sweating with dignity.”
And Jonah.
Jonah is across from me, leaning back slightly, arms braced behind him, every inch of him glistening in that golden, too-damned-sure-of-himself way. His chest rises slow and even, his eyes half-lidded, like he’s in no rush to get anywhere because everything he wants is already here.
I am dying.
Sweating and dying and possibly aroused enough to ruin this towel’s spiritual alignment.
“Welcome,” I say, voice soft, throat dry. “This is the final phase of today’s Unclenching Journey.”
No one speaks.
They are too steamed to resist.
“This steam purge,” I continue, “Is about letting go. Deeply. Physically. Energetically. I invite you to release... with honesty.”
I pause, wipe my hands on my towel, and make a mistake.
I look at Jonah.
He’s looking back.
Like he’s waiting for me to say something I shouldn’t.
Like he already knows I want to.
I blink and look down at my notes.
“Let’s go around the circle,” I say, clearing my throat. “Share one thing you’ve noticed unclenching today.”
Jax snorts. “Besides my pants?”
Miles actually closes his eyes like he’s praying for a second chance at life somewhere that doesn’t smell like minty trauma sweat.
“Be serious,” I say. “This is sacred space.”
Jax lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I guess... my shoulders?”
He shrugs them. They roll like he’s shaking off five years of tension. “Feels weird not being on edge for once.”
He glances at me, almost shy. “I mean. Still on edge. Just... maybe not about everything.”
It’s the closest thing to vulnerability he’s offered all day, and I’m not okay about it.
I nod, swallow, and turn to Asher.
He’s holding his towel like a lifeline. His lips are trembling.
“I think I unclenched... my voice,” he says, then quickly adds, “Not literally. I’m just... not used to being loud. Or honest. Or heard.”
His eyes flick to Jax, to Jonah, to me.
“Today kind of hurt. But in the way you feel when you stretch something that’s been tight for years.”
I nod slowly, pretending I’m not holding back tears. Or a deep desire to hug him until he stops vibrating.
Seb doesn’t wait to be prompted.
“My hands,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t realize how tight I’ve been holding everything.”
He opens them slowly, like he’s letting something go I can’t see.
The steam curls around him like it knows not to ask questions.
I turn to Miles, who is quiet for a moment.
Then he says, “I don’t unclench.” A beat. Then, softer: “But I did...pause.”
It’s more than I expected. Enough to make me blink hard and wish this dome didn’t echo with emotions I’m not ready to carry.
And finally, Jonah.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at me. Long and slow. The kind of look that’s less about staring and more about unwrapping.
“I unclenched my need to know everything,” he says finally. “To figure people out before they show me who they are.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, and adds, “It’s harder than it sounds. Trusting that what’s revealed is real.”
I can’t look away.
I feel like I’m being confessed to and seduced and interrogated, all at once, by a man who hasn’t even moved.
“Thank you,” I say, voice too soft, too shaky.
The steam is heavy now. The air thick with eucalyptus and unspoken longing.
I rise. “I’ll leave you here for a few more minutes,” I whisper. “Let yourselves soften.”
I turn to go, slowly, my towel clinging to my thighs like a betrayal.
Before I step out, I pause, just for a breath, and glance back.
Five men. Bare, glistening, open in ways I didn’t expect and wasn’t prepared for.
And me. Totally, completely unclenched.
I stumble out of the steam dome like I’ve just returned from a war fought entirely in eye contact and eucalyptus.
The air hits me like a slap of sanity. Cool, sharp, pine-laced. I practically collapse against the nearest tree, pressing my forehead to the bark like it might absolve me for whatever spiritual crime I just committed by hosting five half-naked men in a sacred sauna of intimacy and suppressed moaning.
My towel is hanging on for dear life. I am moist, mentally disoriented, and at least three chakra levels too open.
I fumble for my phone and open the group chat like it’s a medical emergency.
ME:
okay
emergency debrief
i may have just spiritually climaxed in a steam dome
CALLIE:
omfg
did you die in there??
was it as hot as i imagine
emotionally or physically
ME:
hotter
everyone was glistening and vulnerable and saying things like “i let go of trust” while looking at me
jonah just sat there breathing and i saw god
CALLIE:
screaming
did he touch you
did you touch him
did your towel fall off “accidentally”
ME:
no one touched anything
except my soul
my soul was gripped
CALLIE:
i’m putting that on a mug
“my soul was gripped in a steam dome”
bliss calloway, founder, spiritual menace, cult classic
ME:
miles confessed to pausing
jax admitted to tension that wasn’t just horny
asher’s eyes got moist again
seb said five syllables and they were all too much
and jonah.
jonah unclenched his need to know people before they show him who they are
i am not okay
CALLIE:
oh. no
oh no no no
that is a man who is here to break you open and whisper affirmations while he does it
ME:
he hasn’t even flirted with me
he just exists
quietly
intentionally
with glistening shoulders and emotional restraint
it’s like being spiritually edged by an NPR host
CALLIE:
bliss babe
you’re not running a retreat anymore
you’re being slowly seduced into a sacred gangbang of the soul
and i think it’s beautiful
ME:
i’m going to lie down under this tree and astrally project away from my choices
CALLIE:
hydrate first
and maybe… reapply your towel
just in case one of them comes out looking for “guidance”
ME:
if jonah exhales in my direction again i’m calling the goddess hotline