I had just ended a three-year relationship, so I thought it would be a good time to try a yoga class. Of course, I picked one filled with hot women in tight pants drinking out of eco-conscious water bottles. I was down, but I wasn’t dead, so I stopped in on a class one night after work.

Inside the place, a group of attractive thirtysomethings was talking about some recent desert retreat and how much it had balanced them. They were all wearing T-shirts with slogans like “Namaste Till I Die” or “Spiritual Assassin.”

I was in the middle of deciding my balance would be to achieve enough zen to accept people who broadcast their Eastern spirituality via T-shirt when the instructor, Morgan, walked in.

She was incredible: honey blonde hair with a stomach so flat it looked like her yoga pants were somehow baggy. When she bent over — perfectly, at the waist, like a diver jackknifing into a pool — I thought her ass might have driven a dagger into me.

Morgan put on a Brian Eno CD, lit a stick of incense, and said something to someone up front in what I assumed was Sanskrit.

At her instruction, people began flowing into poses, arms and legs arranging themselves in impossible-to-hold configurations. At one point, Morgan came over and adjusted my posture, her hand grazing the front of my shorts. Surely an accident! It distracted me so much I could barely focus on the poses.

By the end of class, I was sweaty, achy, and starting to rethink some of my life choices when Morgan appeared in front of me.

“First time?”

“No, I just like to pretend I suck so everyone else feels more comfortable.”

Morgan’s green eyes twinkled as she smirked.

“Very noble of you,” she said. “You must have the yogi’s spirit. If you have a second, I can teach you a few things that might help.” 

After the last woman left, Morgan locked the door and turned off the lights in the front entrance.

Inside the studio, I tried to arrange myself in a way that looked casually attentive, which is hard to do in a big empty room fragrant with fading vegan farts, perspiration, and incense.

“Ready?” she asked as she came back in, closing the door behind her. It was just me, her, and a mirror.

“Ready,” I said. I was not ready.

“Take your shirt off,” she said.

I hesitated — it had been a few weeks since I’d gone to the gym.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Will this make you more comfortable?” And just like that she removed her tank top.

Morgan’s tits were perfect — firm and perky with pink nipples. I was inspired to take my shirt off, revealing my hirsute dad bod.

We both stared at each other, side by side in the mirror.

“I get so tired of these yoga guys,” she said, smiling at me. “Sometimes a girl needs… not a yoga guy.”

“Happy to be… not a yoga guy,” I said.

I was fully tenting my shorts at this point. Then Morgan took off her yoga pants, revealing the rest of her perfect body and a tiny blonde landing strip.

“I’m going to help you become more flexible,” she said. “This will help me, too. I think of it as a form of meditation.”

Morgan knelt in front of me, pulled down my shorts, and took me into her mouth. It was all I could do not to come right there.

Then suddenly, she stopped sucking and stood, bending over at the waist again, and I entered her from behind. Her ass looked like a perfect heart, and as I fucked her, she explained how anyone could do yoga — all it took was relaxation and concentration.

We went through a litany of positions; it was as though she knew exactly when to switch to keep me going. Throughout it all, I started to feel as though I was getting looser, more confident.

Then she laid flat on her back and did a perfect split. I was about to climb on top of her when she put up her hand to stop me.

“No, I want you to do the split, too,” she said. “Then I will come like crazy. If you climb on top of me like I’m some kind of boulder, this is the last time this will ever happen.”

It definitely needed to happen again, so I began laboriously to split my legs, slowly inching my feet apart.

“Stop trying,” she said. “Just do it.”

I guess we had been sweating on the floor, because just then my right foot hit a slick patch and went out from under me. I heard something pop, and I landed perfectly on top of her waiting pussy.

Morgan cried out and writhed in some kind of orgasmic convulsion. Meanwhile, I held my groin and moaned in pain.

Now she rested perfectly still on the floor. I suddenly got worried I’d crushed her to death. A searing pain shot through my crotch.

“I think I need to go to the hospital,” I groaned.

At this point, walking didn’t seem possible, so I belly-crawled  over to my shorts and pulled them on. I was trying to figure out how I was going to resolve this situation in a way that just involved the hospital and not a jail cell.

Morgan was still lying on the floor with her eyes closed. I finally decided I was going to crab-walk to my car, dragging her body with me. I got a grip on both of her limp arms when she came to.

“Oh… ” she said, giving me a look of distaste. “I’m not a cuddler.”

“I thought you — ”

“Listen,” she said, standing and gliding away on the balls of her feet before melting back into her clothes. “You seem like a nice guy, but I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“What?” I said. “I thought you were dead!”

“I was just experiencing radical chakra realignment,” she said. I was in such shock and pain all I could do was stammer.

“Anyway, it’s time for you to go.” She stood over me and watched as I slowly stood up, then staggered outside.

“I’m really sorry,” she said as she closed the door behind me.

The nurse at the ER nodded when I said it was a yoga injury.

“Recently single,” she noted, looking at my chart. “We see a major spike in single men with this exact injury around the new year. You’ll be on crutches for a few weeks, but you’ll live.”

Illustration by Jason Johnson