Kim the Yoga Teacher (PG-13)

I had another yoga class last night with Kim, the young yoga teacher who inspired "Odd Yoga Story."  I wonder what she would think if she read these stories? 

*****

At the end of the yoga class, as everyone rolled their mats and made small talk as they moved toward the door, I helped Kim put away the blankets and cushions. 

"That was a tough class," I said.  "You sure make me realize how bad of a shape I'm in."

Kim smiled sweetly, patiently.  "Yoga's not a competition," she reminded me.  "There aren't any winners.  We each have our own journey."

I nodded, but that lovey-dovey yoga stuff annoyed me sometimes.  "You're right," I agreed.  "But it's easy for you to have that attitude.  I come from a competitive background."

Kim turned from the stack of blankets to study me.  Her big brown eyes appraised me from head to toe.  I waited, wondering what she was thinking.  After a few seconds she spoke.  "What are you really afraid of?" she asked.  "Are you upset that a girl might be stronger than you?  That a class of mostly women might be more athletic than you are?"

I laughed.  "Now that's not a very yoga-like thought."

Kim replied, straight-face.  "I know it's not.  But I think that's what you're worried about.  That's what's holding you back, isn't it?  Fear of being weaker than a woman."

"But I'm not weaker!" I argued.

"That's not the point," Kim said.  "It's not whether you really are weaker, the point is that you're afraid of being weaker."

"Since I know I'm not, what does it matter?"  This was starting to make me angry.

Kim smiled.  "Do you really know?  You sure were sweating a lot, and your legs were quivering  all through class.  How do you know I'm not stronger than you?"

"Well, we could always wrestle," I said, rolling my eyes.

"I think that might be a good idea," Kim said, padding over to the door of the studio and turning the lock.  She turned back to me and lifted her hands, fingers extended--challenging me to a classic test of strength.

"Really think you can beat me?" she asked, walking toward me, offering her small hands.  "Why don't you try?  You need to get past this fear."

Instinctively I took a step back.  "I don't want to hurt you," I said, hesitation and confusion in my voice.

"You're not going to hurt me if you keep backing up," Kim giggled.  "See, you are afraid.  You're running away from a hundred pound girl."

"OK, then," I said, holding my ground.  I held out my own hands, and we tentatively interlaced our fingers.  My hands nearly engulfed hers.  Kim's fingernails, normally painted black, were dark blue today.  We stood for a moment, both exerting firm pressure but not yet fighting.

"Ready?" she asked through her glossy lips.

"Yeah," I grunted.

"Go!" she shouted.  Immediately my strength advantage was clear.  I began forcing her hands backward and down.  My height also gave me leverage.  I took a step forward, forcing her back.  Slowly I increased the pressure and started pushing her hands further down.  Her arms twisted toward herself, and she gritted her teeth with effort.

"See, I told you I was stronger," I gloated, stepping forward again and forcing Kim onto her back on the floor.  I moved forward to straddle her, my adrenaline pumping.  But I had forgotten that Kim was a yogi...flexible and strong.  Before I could sit on her, she had pulled her legs up in between us.  Her knees at her chest, she thrust her feet toward my chest. 

"Don't celebrate yet, big boy," Kim said.  I tried to force her legs down with my body, hoping to bend her in half.  Amazingly, though, she was able to keep me at bay, her small feet digging into my chest and neck.  Our hands were still locked, our fingers intertwined and squeezing intensely. 

I concentrated on positioning my weight directly over her to give myself the maximum advantage as I tried to bend and crush her.  Just when it seemed that she would collapse in half beneath me, Kim somehow locked her ankles around my neck--the insteps of her feet at my carotid arteries, her toes touching each other at the nape of my neck--and twisted her body, throwing me to the side. 

Now, suddenly, I was the one who was trapped!  We lay on our sides on the hardwood floor.  Kim's slim legs were amazingly strong.  Her legs were crossed at the knees so she could use a scissoring motion with her ankles around my neck, the top of her right foot pressing against the right side of my neck, the top of her left foot against the left side of my neck.  Obviously I could have pried her legs apart and freed myself...but our fingers were still intertwined.  Now her small hands held my large hands captive.  Her fingernails dug into the skin on the back of my fingers as I tried to work my hands free.  I had forgotten until this second that Kim was also a rock-climber, and thus had surprisingly strong hands for a hundred-pound girl. 

"Who's stronger?" Kim taunted.  I flailed helplessly in her grip.  She shook my head back and forth with her feet, demonstrating her dominance. 

Eventually I worked myself off my side and up to my knees, trying again to bend Kim in half and crush her.  This time I was careful not to allow her to twist to one side or another.  All the while Kim was asking me what it was like to know that a girl was stronger than me.  Anger and frustration boiled inside me.  Finally I jerked one hand free, then the other, then pried myself from Kim's feet, falling backward to the floor with a thud.

I sat there, massaging the sides of my neck, as Kim gracefully rose to her feet.

"So," she said, "how is it going, facing your fear?  What's it like to realize that a girl might be stronger than you?  Scary, yeah?"

I didn't look up at her as she spoke.  My gaze rested on the floor.  She stepped forward so that I was staring at her feet.  Her toenails were painted blue like her fingernails. 

"Want to go another round?" Kim asked.  "Or was that enough?"

"You're not stronger," I grunted.

Kim laughed.  "Maybe not.  But I'm not weaker, am I?  It's OK, you know.  It's OK for a girl to be stronger than you are." 

I was confused, frustrated, scared. But when I looked up at Kim and saw her tuck her chestnut hair behind her ears, anger replaced all those other emotions.  Still sitting on the floor, I held my hands up, challenging her to another round, another test of strength.

"Round two," she said, stepping forward to interlace her fingers with mine. 

This time she began with the edge leverage she she was standing and I was seated, and she took full advantage.  Quickly she bent my wrists backward--apparently my strength had been drained from our previous struggle--and pushed me to my back.  Grunting in anger and effort, I tried to duplicate her strategy of pulling my legs to my chest to force her away, but my lack of flexibility coupled with her quickness foiled that attempt.  In seconds she had straddled my chest, pinning me flat on my back.  I pushed my feet into the floor, trying to bridge my body upward, but Kim rode me easily, like a cowgirl breaking a tired horse.  I could see the wiry muscles ripple in her thin arms as she pressed my hands down to the floor.  She released my fingers but quickly seized my wrists, pushing my arms painfully onto the hardwood.  As my bucking and squirming waned, Kim slid ever further forward and pressed her knees onto my biceps, pinning me helplessly to the floor.  Her feet pressed firmly, painfully, into the sides of my ribcage.

Kim released my wrists and sat upright.  Again she tucked her hair behind her ears. 

"I'm stronger than you are," she said simply.

I wanted to argue, but how could I?  I was completely helpless beneath her. 

"It's important to confront your fears," Kim went on.  "Well, now you know that this fear was true.  You were afraid a girl might be stronger than you.  You just discovered that really is the case, yeah?"

I didn't answer.  I just stared up at her, at her big brown eyes drilling holes in me.  I squirmed in vain beneath her, unable to dislodge her even a little bit.

"You need to admit it," said Kim.  "Say it."

"No," I managed to say.  My voice was high and cracked.

"Say it.  You have to face it.  Say 'Kim is stronger than me.' "

"No."

"Say it!  Say, 'Kim owns me.' I'll make you say it."

"No," I begged.

"I'm going to make you admit it," Kim said, a smile on her glossy lips.  "It's for your own good," she continued.  "If you didn't realize it, I'm completely in control right now.  I can control everything about you...even your breathing, yeah?  So if you want to breathe, you need to say it."

I tried to protest but Kim's small palm cut off my words as she sealed my mouth.  With her other hand she pinched my nose shut.  I squirmed and struggled and bucked, but she held me tightly.  I could only look up into her glowing face as she smiled and continued talking.

"I've beaten you, yeah?  Just admit it.  All you have to do is admit that a girl is stronger than you, and I'll let you breathe.  Ready to say it?  Blink twice if you're going to say it."

My vision was already getting dim when I blinked and blinked again.  I'm not sure if it was even twice or three or four times.  As soon as Kim took her hand from my mouth I blurted, "You're stronger!  You beat me!"

Kim smiled.  "Didn't that feel good?  Isn't it good to look your fears in the eye?  Now say it again.  Say, 'Kim is stronger than I am.  Kim owns me.' "

"Kim is stronger than me.  Kim owns me!  You own me!"

"Good boy," she said.  "That felt good, saying that didn't it?"

I didn't answer.  I just lay there, frustrated, confused.  Kim swung one of her legs around and rested one of her small feet on my face. 

"Kiss it," she commanded.  She wiggled her toes over my lips insistently.  Hesitantly I puckered, then kissed her foot.  "Kiss each toe," she commanded.  I complied, deepening my humiliation.

"Feels nice to face your fears, yeah?" she asked.  "Say it again.  Who owns you?"

"Kim owns me," I said.

Mother Asserts Her Dominance

“How does this look?” Anne asked as she walked into the living room and did a little pirouette.  “I bought it for our trip to the beach next week.”  She wore a bright pink bikini that covered the bare necessities but not much else.

Her husband, Jack, didn’t bother looking up from the television, which blared a UFC event.  “It’s fine, hon,” he muttered.

Anne’s son, Matt, sat next to his father on the sofa, home from college for the summer.  He did glance up at his mother but didn’t think before responding.  “Geez, mom, it’s a little, I don’t know, a little problematic.”  Anne noted his rolling eyes.

“What do you mean, ‘problematic’?” she asked, looking down.

Jack now shifted his focus to his wife of twenty-five years.  “Good god, Anne, what are you thinking?  You don’t have the body to pull that off!”

Matt agreed.  “Yeah, mom.  I mean, you look ok for a fifty-year-old—“

“I’m forty-eight,” Anne snapped.

“Yeah, whatever.  You look good for you age, but, well, you’re kinda…”

“Kind of what?” Anne asked, hands on her hips.  She moved to stand in front of the TV, blocking the father’s and son’s view of the fight.

“You’ve got flabby thighs, hon,” said Jack.  “And your chest is saggy.  Is that good enough for you?  Why don’t you get a big one-piece suit, and maybe wear a t-shirt over it, and shorts.”

Anne glared at her husband and son, not budging.  “Well, what are you dough-boys going to wear to the beach?  Coveralls?”

“It’s ok, mom,” Matt said.  “You’re in pretty good shape for as old as you are.  You can’t help it if you’re not eighteen any more.”

“Neither one of you is eighteen any more, either,” Anne said.  “And I’m not simply in pretty good shape, I’m in great shape.  Better shape than either of you.  All you do is watch other people do sports on TV.”  She turned and looked at the fight on the screen behind her.  “Neither one of you could ever do anything like that.  Flabby thighs or not, I’m the only athlete in this house.”

“Oh geez,” moaned Jack.

“Be serious, mom!” Matt said, his voice rising.  “You might jog some but you’re not in half the shape I am!”

“Jog some?  I ran a four-hour marathon last month!”

“Big deal.  Anybody can just putter along at nine or ten minutes a mile,” Matt argued.

“You couldn’t.  Neither one of you could.  Maybe for a few miles, but not twenty-six.  Not even ten.  And to look at the two of you sitting there eating chips, I bet I could even beat you both at that garbage.”  She jerked her thumb at the TV, where one fighter had the other trapped in a triangle choke.

Jack snorted and Matt began to laugh hysterically. 

“Sure mom, whatever you say,” he said between guffaws. 

Anne had made her boast hyperbolically, in frustration, but as she stood there staring at her husband and son, she came to believe her words.

“OK, then, let’s make a bet.  Tomorrow we’ll have a competition.  First, we’ll all run ten miles.  Right after we’ll wrestle; I’ll take you both on, one at a time.  I bet I’ll beat both of you in the run and in the wrestling.”

“Oh geez,” snorted Jack, shaking his head.

“Mom, you can’t be serious!” shouted Matt.

“Afraid of your little ol’ mommy?” Anne taunted.

“What’s the bet?” Jack suddenly asked.  “What do we get when we win?”

Anne thought a moment.  “How about this?  If either of you beats me in the race or in the wrestling, then I’ll get a new suit and do all the chores around the house for a year.  Matt, if you win one of the events, I’ll buy you a new iPad and make your car payments for six months.”

“Sweet!” exclaimed Matt.

“Sounds like a good deal,” said Jack.

“But if I win, if I beat both of you in running and in wrestling, then both of you have to wear pink bikinis to the beach…just like this,” Anne said, running her fingers through her skimpy suit.

The men sat open-mouthed for just a moment before remembering that losing was not an option.

“You’re on,” said Jack.

“It’s a bet,” agreed Matt.

***

The next morning, Anne, Jack, and Matt stood in their driveway.  Anne wore a pink sports bra and matching running shorts, along with pink Asics running shoes.  Matt wore baggy basketball shorts and an UnderArmor t-shirt, while Jack wore cut-off sweatpants and a faded Steelers t-shirt.

“You both know the course, right?” asked Anne.  “Just run straight down the boulevard, head right on Kingston Pike, run down to the Presbyterian Church, and then come back the same way.  That way we’ll all be able to see each other so there won’t be any chance of cheating.”

“Sure, mom,” said Matt, taking a last swig from a RedBull.

“Sweetie, you shouldn’t drink that stuff,” said Anne.  “It’s bad for you.”

Matt didn’t even bother replying.

“Ready?  OK, let’s go!” Anne called as she clicked the timer on her running watch.

Matt took off at a pretty good clip; Anne estimated he was probably doing a seven-minute mile pace.  Jack started off right at Matt’s heels but within a hundred yards had already slowed considerably.  Anne contented herself with a moderate ten-minute per mile pace, knowing that the race wouldn’t be won in the first moments.

Anne passed her husband within five minutes.  “Don’t push yourself too hard, honey,” she said as she passed him, true concern in her voice.  Matt was out of sight.  But by the time she neared the turn-around point, she had closed the gap.  His pace had slowed considerably, and now he was just barely moving faster than a walk.  When he turned he was shocked to see his mother just twenty yards behind him.  Anne laughed to herself as he immediately accelerated; she knew that he wouldn’t be able to maintain the faster pace for more than a few minutes.  Sure enough, she passed her son, breathing laboriously, just moments later.  “See you back at the house, sugar,” she said brightly.

Ninety minutes after the race had begun, Anne trotted back up her driveway.  She looked back and couldn’t see either her son or husband.  “Great,” she thought, “I have enough time to change and get a quick snack.”

Twenty minutes later, Matt staggered up the drive and into his front yard.  He bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, and panted like a dog.  Suddenly two bare feet stepped into his field of view.

“Ready for your mom to kick your ass?” came his mother’s voice.

Anne didn’t wait for a reply.  She didn’t know any wrestling moves, but she didn’t need to.  Matt was so fatigued from his run that she was able to sling him by one arm onto the grass.  He feebly fought back but she straddled his stomach and grabbed his wrists, forcing them to the ground by his head.  Matt struggled and squirmed but was too tired to dislodge the middle-aged woman pinning him to the ground. 

“Do I win?” Anne asked, giggling like a schoolgirl, elated at the ease of her apparent victory.

Matt looked up at his grinning mother and realized, with dismay and shame, that she was wearing her new skimpy pink bikini.  While he struggled pathetically, she adjusted her position so that now her knees pinned his biceps and her thighs (her flabby thighs) squeezed his chest tightly.  Anne leaned forward, using her weight to force Matt’s wrists firmly into the grass.  Her chest (her saggy chest) was immediately above him, and he couldn’t help but notice her breasts swinging back and forth as if to taunt him.  He was not only beaten, he was beaten by a womanly woman.

“Do I win?” asked Anne again.  She realized she could release her son’s wrists; he wasn’t going anywhere.  He kicked his legs impotently, but that was all he could do.  She grabbed his jaw with her right hand and squeezed, driving her pink nails into his skin.  “I asked you a question, honey.  Do I win?”

“Yes, yes,” sobbed Matt.  “Let me up!”

“Is that the proper way to ask?” Anne scolded, squeezing her nails deeper into Matt’s face.

“No!  I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!”  Matt bucked and squirmed underneath his victorious mother.  “Please, may I get up?  Please?”

“OK, OK, since you asked nicely,” Anne laughed, getting off her son.  She stood and offered him a hand, but he rolled to the side, too ashamed to accept her help.  “Don’t be a baby,” she said.  “Go on into the house and get cleaned up.  I’ll make you some French toast for lunch if you don’t pout.”

Matt stalked inside, his head down.

Anne was glad that he wouldn’t see what she had in store for his father.

She sat on the porch drinking lemonade and admiring her nails for another fifteen minutes before Jack staggered up the street.  He seemed barely able to walk.  His breath was labored and he limped.  Anne ran out to help him into the yard.

“Are you ok, honey?  Do you need to go to the hospital?” Anne asked as she held him up by his arm. 

“No…I’m….fi…fine…just…a little…tired…,” Jack gasped in between huge gulps of air.

“Well, if you’re fine,” said Anne, “I guess we’ll go on to round two.”

With that she kicked him in the balls as hard as she could.  He dropped like a sack of concrete and lay writhing on the ground.  Anne kicked him over to his back and then placed a bare foot on his throat.  Gradually she shifted her weight onto his neck, watching with amusement how his face turned more and more red.  Jack pawed helplessly at her leg. 

Finally Anne took her foot off her husband’s throat and allowed him to breathe.  He lay panting for several moments while Anne circled him.  “Taking me for granted, huh?  Thought you wore the pants in this family, didn’t you?  We’ll see who gets to wear the pants around here.” 

When Jack began to regain his senses a bit, Anne reached over and pulled him to his feet by his hair.  He stood unsteadily.  Anne then seized his right wrist and twisted it behind his back in a classic hammerlock.  “This way,” she commanded as she walked him over to the front porch.  She took a seat on the top step and forced him over her knee, still holding his arm behind his back. 

“What are you doing?” sputtered Jack.

“I’m going to teach you who the boss is,” said Anne as she hooked the thumb of her free hand into the elastic of his shorts and yanked them to his knees.

“Anne!  The neighbors will see!” screamed Jack.

“Then stop crying like a little girl,” replied his wife.

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!

Anne’s breasts bounced merrily as she spanked her husband’s ass bare-handed until her hand was sore.  His legs kicked like a child having a temper tantrum.  When she was through, Anne shoved him off her lap and rolled him back into the front yard. 

Before Jack could make an escape or even pull up his shorts, Anne was upon him again.  “One last thing, honey,” she said.  “Let’s see how much you like my flabby thighs.  And my flabby butt.  And my new bikini.  I’d like to you kiss them.”

“What?” squealed Jack.

“You heard me.  And you don’t have any choice.”  It wasn’t hard for Anne to force Jack to his back and sit on his chest, facing his feet.  She scooted backward, forcing the small pink bikini and the ample flesh it covered into Jack’s face.  He tried to push her off but she easily grabbed both his wrists and pressed them into the grass by his sides. 

“Kiss!” Anne commanded.

Jack refused.  Anne bounced up and down on her husband, battering his face with her fleshy bottom until she sensed the last bit of fight had gone out of him.

“Kiss!” she commanded again.  Anne smiled and giggled when her husband replied.

She could get used to this, she thought.

* * *

Anne met a lot of interesting people at the beach.  So many women stopped to chat about the son and husband wearing bikinis that matched her own.