Day 14 Sweaty Naked Boys

So a few weeks ago, three young guys tried out a yoga class. You could tell they thought it was a joke; they swaggered into the studio like hockey players, all ripped and cocky, naked but for their under-armours, all “look at me” and “yeah, baby, enjoy the show.” Those of us with a few classes under our belts just smiled in anticipation.

For the record, black under-armours aren’t a completely bad idea. Black just gets blacker when it’s wet. Someone should have warned the guy in white, however.

I adjusted my position so I had a clear view in the mirror. There was gonna be a show, alright.

Within minutes, the pretty naked-boys weren’t smiling quite so hard. They realized that all these middle-aged people were actually fit, and knew how to do stuff that, gosh, was harder than it looked. And geez, it was HOT.

Before long, they weren’t smiling at all. In fact, they looked nauseated and wobbly. White under-armour guy suddenly realized that he was, for all intents and purposes, naked, and didn’t appear too thrilled about it.

By the end of the class, they were all collapsed on their towels, limp and gasping. When it went from interesting to slightly worrisome, to embarrassing, I stopped watching. I didn’t want to bear witness to any stains appearing on those tighty-whities.

The naked-boys haven’t been back. They’re welcome, though. As soon as they’re ready for a real work-out with real hotties.