Downward Dog

Yeah. That Arnold Schwarzenegger.

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I’ve taken to calling my yoga class here in Italy my weekly humiliation ritual. And no, that’s not my kink.

Taking a fitness class in a foreign language is no joke. So many new words! So fast! And with a teacher who wasn’t content to let me struggle on my own, I was being singled out at every turn for doing the poses wrong. 😅 It was an intense hour, to say the least.

But it wasn’t only the language barrier. I also chafed against the fact that I had to remain fully clothed in said yoga class.

I know, I know. You’re probably rolling your eyes. Must you be naked everywhere, Mike? 🤭 Well, I almost always prefer to be. But I also have proof that naked yoga is better!

Let me take you back a couple years.

I had just ended a six-year stretch of domestic (monogamous) bliss, and I was ravenous—extremely eager to take advantage of my newfound freedom.

One way or another, I discovered a men’s naked yoga group organized in my neighborhood. I signed up and submitted to a bureaucratic gauntlet, the point of which was to emphasize the privacy and explicitly non-sexual nature of the yoga group. Fine by me. I consented, and was allowed to register for my first class.

When I got there, I eased inside to find a group of men that were becoming more naked by the second. The host, obviously already nude, took my $20 entry fee and gestured toward the big open space that was normally his living room, where a couple of naked guys were already sitting cross-legged on their mats.

In the tight entrance hallway, I began stripping down with the other recent arrivals, leaning against the wall as I sloughed off my socks. When nothing remained, I carried my yoga mat and water bottle across the apartment, and set it down in the corner. I sat, crossed my legs, and waited in silence.

Eventually, the room filled up and the class began. Our teacher, also nude, led us through movements as he roamed between the grid of mats, sometimes offering a supportive touch, or instructing us to tuck our naughty bits when the pose called for it.

I am being totally honest when I tell you that the nudity was the least difficult thing about this class. I had only done yoga a couple times in my life at this point, and I struggled to keep up, or keep my balance, or keep from slipping on my own sweat. Yoga, I was rudely reminded, was not the chill and meditative experience I tended to imagine.

When the 90 minutes were over, I was very grateful to roll up my mat. I followed the (still-naked) others toward the kitchen, where our host set out some wine, cheese and crackers. This was the social hour, I presumed. I began chatting and introducing myself and relaxing into the scene.

After about 20 minutes, I couldn’t help but notice a few guys wander back over to the living room. Said guys also started getting awfully touchy-feely. That was odd; the exhaustive joining instructions specifically stated, over and over, that this was not a sexual space.

Perhaps sensing my confusion, the host came over my way and flicked on a small disco light that projected colors onto the walls. “When we turn on the light, the real social hour begins,” he explained, referencing the increasingly sexual proceedings in the next room. I was free to leave, he explained, or stick around if I felt inspired.

I definitely felt inspired.