Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  A perfect moment of balance before everything comes crashing down.

  Chapter 5

  It’s a quarter to midnight and again, I can’t sleep. I see my cell phone flashing, as I’ve turned the volume down so as not to be distracted by Hutch’s latest cavorting call. The message, however, is from luscious Monique, of New Year’s Eve fame.

  She’s called me at 11:10 p.m., a little late to initiate a conversation with someone you barely know. From that alone—and from the purring tone in her voice, and by the fact that we have nothing to say to each other—it’s obvious what she wants. I hesitate for only a moment. I do have Phoebe at 7:30 a.m. But that’s a whole 7 hours and 20 minutes away.

  What the hell, I justify, knowing full well that this is a booty call, a hit and run, pure and simple. She picks up, her caller ID clearly reading my name. “Sorry, is it too late?” I ask.

  “Not tonight,” she replies, an inviting amusement to her voice.

  Truthfully, in general I don’t have that many booty calls. In fact, I’ve never found that perfect woman who’s willing to show up on my doorstep, have sex, and leave. As Hutch points out, they have a technical term for them: escorts. And sadly, even with my recent cash-positive reinvention as guru to the rich and famous, until the rent’s paid up, I think it prudent not to be dabbling in hookers.

  Fortunately, I learn that Monique lives in the West Village, a mere seven-minute cab ride away. Our phone flirtation (more like an illicit negotiation) is intense and to the point. Just after midnight, she appears at my door. I half expect her to be wearing a fur coat with nothing underneath. It doesn’t matter because barely one minute after she knocks on my door, we’re immediately and intensely making out while tossing off items of clothing.

  Total time between placing the order and delivery of naked female sex object: sixteen minutes. Even Domino’s can’t beat this kind of service.

  It’s just before 2 a.m. when we’re both finished. Good, I think, knowing that without excess alcohol in my system, I’m reasonably functional on five hours sleep and a triple espresso (Thank God Starbucks opens at 6:30.).

  My only fear is that I’m going to have to spend more time talking or cuddling or in some way managing Monique. I can’t really ask her to leave, although right now, I’m more than ready to just roll over and doze off. So imagine my delight when she kisses me sweetly, gets out of bed, and starts dressing.

  “You can stay,” I offer, demonstrating what I feel is enormous gallantry given that I’m beyond thrilled she’s leaving.

  “No offense, but I sleep much better in my own bed. And I’ve got to get up practically at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Me, too,” I reply, and for once, this is actually true.

  She moves with sexy efficiency, sliding into her scattered clothes and slipping on her shoes. “Good. I didn’t think you’d want cuddling or anything like that. You’re not the type,” she tells me. I wince politely, as though wounded to be found out.

  “I thoroughly enjoyed myself,” she says, putting on her coat. “And I mean that.” She leans in to kiss me goodnight.

  “I know you did,” I reply confidently. “And so did I,” I second, kissing her again.

  “So maybe again sometime …” she replies, hesitating only briefly.

  I register the pause. “Except?”

  “Don’t take this wrong, but I’m only interested in you sexually. Definitely not as a boyfriend. In fact, I really don’t want any kind of emotional involvement.” I don’t know exactly how to respond, although frankly, since this is a slightly watered-down version of exactly what I always say to my conquests, you’d think I’d be less perplexed.

  “Meaning … You want a fuck buddy?”

  Monique laughs. “I’ve never been crazy about that term, but frankly, more or less, yes.”

  “I see,” I reply, wondering if this could possibly be true (And if this is actually something I really want.).

  “I’ve already got tremendous friends and a not-too-insane family. My sisters are great. My career is exploding. I’m traveling all the time and I’m about to move to the next level with Becker. My plate is full with great stuff; I just don’t have time for any boyfriend shit.” She pauses for effect. “Although I wouldn’t mind some uncomplicated hot sex on the side.”

  I consider for a moment. “Monique, are you proposing to me?”

  This elicits a smirk from her. Putting on her earmuffs and gloves, she leans in for a final kiss, her gingery perfume mixed with the scent of our lovemaking (Okay, make that screwing.). It completely envelops me.

  She’s totally captivating as she whispers, “Do you take this woman, not to have, but to screw with passion and gusto, so long as you both don’t get bored?”

  I kiss her back, and God help me, I reply, “I do.”

  “By the authority vested in me … by, I suppose, me—a confirmed, career-consumed total narcissist—I now pronounce us ‘Fuck Buddies.’”

  I smile back at her but treading lightly, decide to ask, “What exactly does this mean to you?”

  She tosses off the question with a ready answer. “It means that while it’s still hot between us, we can call each other for sex whenever it’s convenient. We dispense with all the social foreplay involved in dating—I can buy my own dinner and flowers, thank you very much. I’m sure, by the way, that soon enough you’ll be back on your feet with some new nightlife venture that will take up all your time.”

  “That’s pretty unlikely.”

  “Oh please—it’s only a matter of time. You’ll ride the right wave when it comes in. Say—have you seen The Genevieve since it reopened?”

  “I liked the whole decor thing they did with the waves, but I wasn’t crazy about the tiles in the bathroom. Plus I thought the menu was too cute, too girly. They’re never going to attract bankers who want to shag models, and at that price point, that’s clearly their target.”

  “I rest my case. You’re one of those guys who just has this stuff in your blood. Anyway, while it’s fun, I wouldn’t mind dropping by here occasionally and screwing your brains out.”

  “Is that all?” I ask, both stunned and elated.

  “Yes, there’s one thing, and perhaps it’s the most important: we have sex, but we sleep in separate beds.”

  Smiling, without further adieu, she’s out the door.

  And I have to admit, I’m surprisingly conflicted. On the one hand, I feel like I just won the sex lottery: beautiful, intelligent Monique wants to have a no-strings-attached situation with yours truly. It’s like the answer to every Player’s Prayers.

  And yet … well, it’s not like I’m consumed with guilt, it’s that I’m feeling a little … incomplete. I’m not sure what more I want, except there’s this lingering, absent feeling of “And Now What?” that I can seem to shake.

  And so, ten minutes later, I break my three week resolution and log on to Facebook (no major Shane update to report other than two unremarkable tagged photos of her at a Super Bowl party thrown by someone named Josh)—and then I’m under the covers and rapidly and (relatively) blissfully sound asleep, alone in my bed.

  I take Calypso’s afternoon class and it’s awesome. Her dancer background and flowing music makes even a military-spawned dude like me feel he can move gracefully. I plant my mat in the back row, asking her if she minds if I sneak out right before Corpse Pose as I have a teaching interview. Calypso says, “Of course not,” and hugs me twice for luck, offering an elegant and inspired ninety minutes of bliss.

  Once I arrive, I find that, quite frankly, I don’t blend in with the rarified spa atmosphere of Epitome at all. The preternatural calm, the sense of oasis within New York City, despite all the references to sea and sand, ironically feels particularly artificial. Especially after the Flower Child brightness of Thank Heaven, it’s all too bland for me, a symphony of tasteful neutrality, of earth tones gone stale. I half listen as the desk staff upsells moisturizers as though they were
miracle cures. Maybe it’s all just too damn girly; in more ways than one, I am not the demographic and I am not at home here.

  I’m offered herbal tea while I wait, with three varieties (Stimulating, Calming, and Neutralizing) to choose from. I opt out, wishing I’d had the foresight to have downed a double tall latte before landing in decaffeinated Spa Land.

  Marguerite emerges, her face and form a glowing, perfect advertisement for Epitome. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was just observing one of our Centrifugal Force classes.”

  “Centrifugal Force?”

  “It’s our brand of core strengthening with some stretching, aerobics, Pilates, and a few yoga moves. My husband, Pete, and I invented it.”

  “Okay. Sounds interesting.”

  “Take a class sometime. It’s free for teachers here. Okay, then, did you bring two forms of ID like I asked?” she smiles. I nod. “Great,” she replies. “All you have to do is fill out some tax forms then watch our sexual harassment video, and we’re set. Oh, unless you want direct deposit. Then I’ll need a voided check.”

  “That’s all fine. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted me to teach a practice class or something first.”

  She shakes her head and smiles as though the idea of actually having me teach something—or having more than one reference or, frankly, any actual experience—is outlandish overkill. “Brooke Merrington’s endorsement means the world to us. I’ll do a little juggling, and we’ll get you started with a class next week. You’ll have a mix of students, but everyone wants a challenging workout.”

  “That’s fine with me. I trained at Thank Heaven, and it was incredibly intense.”

  Marguerite smiles, and then, as though confiding in rather than hiring me says, “That’s terrific. I’ve heard great things about their classes, but … we’ve found our clients don’t really want chanting or anything like that. In fact, I’d go easy on all that spirituality stuff. ”

  God knows I’m hardly pious, and definitely quite far from a monk, but even a guy like me’s gotta have a little spirituality with his yoga. It’s like a martini without the olive. (Okay, I know I reference liquor and ladies all the time, but I’m sure in conversation the Pope probably brings up Jesus a lot, too.)

  “I mean, you can say some positive things, if you want,” Marguerite continues. “Just generally life-affirming stuff, but I’d keep anything too vibey or Hindu or Buddhist out of it. Unless it’s ayurvedic—that stuff goes over pretty well, thanks to Aveda. Oh, and when the Dalai Lama’s in town, people like to hear about that, too—but not too much.”

  This isn’t the conversation that I’d been expecting, somehow. And yet, having taught exactly one person, it’s not like I’m attached to my nonexistent methodology. I suppose teaching yoga-lite—yoga without all the annoying little things such as the fact that it’s fundamentally a spiritual practice and a philosophy, and not a workout—will be doable.

  “Just keep it physically challenging, particularly on the fast-moving aerobic side so they can feel they’re burning calories, and I’m sure you’ll be a huge hit. Our base fee is $75 a class, but after ten students, we add a $3 commission by the head.” (I note that my starting salary here is three times my Sweatshop wages.)

  Marguerite rises and leads me to an empty, neutral room (neutral wood floors, neutral beige walls, neutral mats, neutral baskets). It seems Epitome’s decorator felt that the appearance of an actual color might cause guests to suffer extensive visual and emotional trauma. Behind the tastefully neutral velvet curtain, there’s a complicated stereo system with a monitor on top.

  “Why don’t you just watch the video now?” Marguerite offers. “It’s about forty minutes, and the next class isn’t until 5:15.”

  She sets it up and leaves the room. In three minutes, I’m bored out of my skull watching the bad acting and writing, and half wondering if Aspiring Allison ever found the right monologue so she could launch her career in just such industrial videos.

  As glaring sexual harassment scenarios play out before me, I decide it’s enough that I coexist half listening in the same space with the video. That seems a worthy compromise. So I start to practice my handstand, first up against the wall, then moving my legs away from it. Today feels like a good balancing day—I’m in the groove, as it were—and so I begin practicing in the middle of the room, managing to hold the handstand for several breaths. Suddenly, there’s some applause.

  Two very hot thirty-something women wearing white terrycloth overstuffed robes and towels wrapped around their heads smile at me. They’re clearly en route between spa services, moving to and from massages and manicures or what have you.

  “That was impressive,” one of them—the one wearing a huge, jeweled pendant at her cleavage—says.

  “Thanks,” I reply. Diamond Cleavage smiles.

  “You’ve done this before,” her friend—no necklace but Serious Earrings and even more Serious Breasts—chimes in. Apparently these ladies can’t leave their jewelry at home for fear of running into a competitive socialite, and they can’t very well leave it in a locker, either. They’re like Olympic torchbearers for Money; they must keep the Flame of Wealth alive.

  “I’m going to start teaching yoga here,” I volunteer.

  “Wonderful,” Diamond Cleavage replies. “I love Centrifugal Force, but I’ve been wanting to try their yoga workouts.”

  “I’ve been doing yoga for six months and love it,” Serious Cleavage chimes in. “Steven—that’s my husband—says it’s done wonders for my ass.”

  “My ass is fine,” Diamond Cleavage remarks. “I’m looking for something to tighten up my thighs. Can yoga do that?”

  I’m a bit startled. This is not the kind of conversation I’m used to hearing at a yoga center. People want the physical benefits, yes, but I’ve yet to hear someone at the front desk of Thank Heaven sell a class with an “It’ll be great for your ass!” endorsement.

  A heavily accented attendant appears and mercifully whisks Diamond Cleavage off, no doubt to some thigh-tightening treatment. Serious Cleavage lingers.

  “So what kind of yoga will you be teaching?” Serious Cleavage asks. “I want something that’ll burn up a lot of calories.”

  “I’ll try to make it challenging.”

  Serious Cleavage moves in even closer. “Good. I like a bit of a challenge with a man.” I comically wince at the cheesy dialogue that passes for repartee here. And I notice she’s wearing a wedding band (along with a massive diamond engagement ring). She notices me noticing but ignores it. I like confident women, and even though she’s really hot in a late thirties, rich-chick way, this whole thing isn’t turning me on. Maybe it’s the incongruous bathrobe or the sexual harassment video still playing in the background. Or, that she’s sipping a cup of herbal tea or that I don’t have a martini. Mostly, it’s that as a wolf, I like to initiate the chase myself. I don’t know whether to laugh or fast-forward to reference an appropriate chapter on the sexual harassment DVD. Fortunately, just then, another heavily accented aesthetician calls her name. I note that all the cosmetic workers are foreign here; Americans, it seems, must have no flair for the Science of Beauty. Given the mushy accent, I can’t tell what Serious Cleavage’s name is, and she doesn’t bother to introduce herself formally. “Well, then. I’m sure I’ll see you in class,” she says. “I’m looking forward to working up a sweat with you.”

  I turn as she exits, and then Serious Cleavage totally surprises me by grabbing my ass for a second. It’s a pretty ballsy move, especially for a married lady in a spa robe, but I suppose that’s what makes it safe. Am I, I wonder, just another Epitome spa service? Papaya facials, laser lipo, and instructor gropes?

  I return to the video’s equally obvious, yet disapproving, take on pickup scenarios. Just as the credits are rolling, Marguerite resurfaces, opening the neutral wooden door to the room and letting in the Centrifugal Force crowd.

  At Thank Heaven, I really do restrain myself and maintain my b
est behavior. There’s something in its yoga roots that allows me to stay, more or less, a little high-minded. Even if I’m not contemplating joining an ashram or become a vegan, at least I’m able to restrain my basest impulses.

  At Epitome, however, the vibe is quite different. This place is designed for the consummate upscale consumer in us all. Somehow the emphasis on ass-perfecting, sheep-embryo moisturizers, and instructor gropes, leads me to indulge in moments of outright checking out the upscale hotties that march into the room. And I notice several very cute ladies checking me out in return.

  I stop myself. This is now a place of employment for me. If I want to maintain my miscast position as a Yoga Shepherd, this wolf cannot snack on his charges. Hutch and I have all of New York City in which to roam and satisfy our appetites; I cannot allow my hungers and my habits to ruin things for me here. I’m thankful that Centrifugal Force is about to begin.

  “Welcome to Epitome,” Marguerite says, as she shakes my hand after escorting me to the elevator. “I think you’ll be very happy here.”

  “Me, too,” I reply as the elevator doors open. Once inside, however, I think it wise to recall the mantra my guru Hutch gave me in a sacred moment on the first day of the new year. “Don’t fuck this up … Don’t fuck this up … Don’t fuck this up!”

  For now, the chant sends me safely home.

  GODDESS POSE

  (Supta Baddha Konasana)

  A soothing, restorative pose that opens the hips, groin, chest, and heart … and God, how I hate it.

  You just lie on your back. Then draw the soles of your feet together, knees diamonding out to the sides. I remember to smooth my lower back down, even gently butterflying my knees a few times. But honestly, I still hate it.

  Somehow women especially love this pose—hence the nickname. Indeed, for many women, this pose is actually an effortless, soothing favorite and a way, perhaps, to encounter a connection to their simultaneous combination of softness and strength, to the goddess within. (Kali, the fiercest goddess, who wears a necklace of human skulls, is often said to be simultaneously the most benevolent and the most vulnerable.)