BURGERSCOOT

This is mostly a work of fiction. Some of it actually happened. I’ll leave it up to the reader to decide what parts are factual and what parts are a product of my sexually frustrated old mind. I do love women’s feet, though!

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I walked into the lobby of the neighborhood yoga studio; every right step brought an audible snap from my ankle. “Damn it! It’s probably snapping under the weight of my fat body.” I rolled out my mat in the front row of the crowded studio, walked to the equipment room, snapping all the way, grabbed two blocks and a bolster, snapped back to my spot, and waited for Susan, the Tuesday 10 a.m. teacher. Since my retirement, I joined this local yoga studio. I doubted it would help me lose any weight, but it was good for flexibility, and the location is close — a bike trip away.

Just before 10 a.m., two women walked to the front of the studio: Lexi, the owner of the joint, and a woman I had never seen before. Lexi introduced Sophia as today’s Tuesday 10 a.m. (substitute) teacher. I didn’t catch why Susan couldn’t make it today, but I was transfixed by her replacement. Before she called out the first asana, I knew I was in trouble. Like most yoga teachers, Sophia was young enough to be my daughter or, worse, daughter-in-law, drop-dead gorgeous, but unlike most female yoga teachers, she was not slender but had a curvaceous body. I was angry: how was I going to concentrate on my practice? A part of me wished women who were this beautiful and who radiated sex should be banned from wearing yoga clothes; burlap sacks would do. It also didn’t help that she had dark red hair that she tied in a thick, intricate, tight braid, which she tried to keep in front of her, between her ample breasts. This was going to be a nightmare.

As Lexi left, she wished us a blessed practice. I wished that I had rolled my mat out in the back, but it was too late now. Sophie had a soft voice and, for some reason, no wireless microphone to amplify it, so her cues were sometimes hard to hear. She first had the class lie down on our “tummies,” as she called them, so she was cute, too, great, and turn our heads to the right, using our hands—one on top of the other—as a pillow. She walked around the studio, switching on and placing battery-powered faux-candles around the dimly lit room while she spoke softly about the chakra system CHANGE. I tried to keep my eyes shut the way I usually do during practice, but whenever her soft, sultry voice grew clearer, I opened them only to see her walk up or down the rows, light another candle, and set it down. When her voice became louder, I opened my eyes to see she had stopped right next to my head. I got a good look at her right foot.

I don’t and never have had a fetish, but women’s feet are the closest thing I have to one. I remember once going to a concert where Mozart’s Overture to Don Giovanni, Beethoven’s 5th Piano Concerto, and Mahler’s 2nd Symphony were on the program. What a night that should have been. The overture was fine, but during the second movement of the piano concerto, something caught my left eye. A woman two seats to my right had adjusted her legs, and when I looked at what shiny object had pulled me away from the pianist, I saw some leg peek out from the woman’s dress. No big deal. Ah, but her foot, that was the new show for me. I don’t care if the pianist went to Juilliard, studied with NAME, played with the NAMES; I was transfixed by the woman’s ornamentation of her perfect foot: a toe ring and the anklet transfixed me. I think the only reason I didn’t get my teeth knocked out of my skull by the gentleman who separated us is that I had successfully feigned sleeping. Five minutes later, the woman’s husband/date nudged me. I thought he figured me out. Instead, he whispered, “Wake up, you’re missing a great Emperor concerto!” I snapped out of my fixation and enjoyed the rest of the concert, mainly because the couple didn’t return after intermission for the Mahler.

My sub’s foot ornamentation was no less sexy, just a hell of a lot closer to my face: beautiful unpainted nails, a gold Celtic-design toe ring, and a gold chain anklet. I have absolutely no idea what our substitute was saying; I should have shut my eyes, but I couldn’t look away.

I went through the vinyasa of Sphinx, Table, with my eyes closed, then couldn’t help myself and looked through the corner of my right eye in anticipation of seeing Sophia in Cow pose, but instead saw an empty mat. From there, it was a few more Cat/Cow poses with the empty mat, damn it!, then back to Table. From there we went into Downward Facing Dog, which I do poorly. Before we were done with Down Dog, Sophia gently grabbed my hips and pulled up, then placed one hand on my back and gave gentle, constant pressure down. With any other teacher, I would have appreciated the adjustment, but this time it only made my brain boil over with possibilities on a different planet.

At one point we were on our backs, our right leg straight above us, and I thought, what’s going to happen to me if she straddles my leg and gives constant pressure down. I thought it would be game over to see that thick, gorgeous red ponytail drop between us. Instead, I heard her tell us to rotate our feet. “Snap!, snap!, snap!” until I heard someone in the studio giggle. “God damn it!” I thought to myself. I stopped rotating my right foot. Thankfully, she had us bend our right knees into our chests. From there, I (barely) heard Sophia tell us to extend our arms in a T and cross the bent knee across our body into a spinal twist to the left. Now, I was taught that whenever we move our leg to one side, we turn our head the opposite direction, which is what I did. I opened my eyes, wondering how close she was now; her voice sounded close, and I was almost kissing distance from our sub’s left foot- the unadorned (or naked) one. It still looked beautiful.

During the closing minutes of Savasana, I could hear Sophia walking around the studio, presumably waving a scented towel over the students, except I could hear her moving in an odd way—different from Susan and the other teachers—from student to student. When she was right over me, I sensed her bending over to get closer; that’s when I felt a wet dot of eucalyptus on my third eye as she rubbed it in. I wanted her to tell me that she needed a fat old man to help her get a certificate as an obese geriatric yoga certification, and whether I would be willing to help her. As appreciation for my inconvenience, she would take me out for espresso after every session. Before I said yes, I woke up. Turns out I snored through Savasana and ruined the moment for everyone.