By Joshua Stein
Aaron Star and I were staring into each other's eyes'his brown, mine darting back and forth uneasily. We were both on my yoga mat, kneeling in front of one another, a few inches separating our knees. 'OK,' he said to the class, 'one person go into child's pose.' He pointed to a spot between his knees. I put my head there. He leaned forward and laid his torso on my back. His hands were on my ass, kneading downward. As he did this, his balls smacked my forehead gently. Killing me softly with his schlong, I sang to myself and stifled a laugh. What in the name of Shakti did this have to do with yoga? My knees began to ache from the extreme flexion caused by our combined weight. I was distressed about my knees and about the balls on my forehead. I had a hard time focusing on my practice. We switched, and I lay on top of Star, whose face was centimeters from my penis. My face rested centimeters from his ass. I didn't know where to look, so I looked around: at the paintings of fat women, at the other yogis. Some men had their faces buried in the asses of their partners. Some of them, however, had varied the position. Instead of yin-yanging head to crotch, one man had mounted his partner. When everyone returned to their mats, most were at least partially hard. I'm sorry, Robert Palmer's song entered unbidden into my head. I didn't mean to turn you on. I didn't mean to turn you on-n-n-n.
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