Tessa [M42 F19] [Yoga] [Teacher-Student] [Old-Young] [Infatuation] [Thoughts]

What’s the best day of the week? Monday, of course! Get up at 4:30am, get some breakfast, shit, shower and shave, and get ready for your 6:00am power yoga class! No, I’m not wrong, you’re wrong! Early yoga on Monday just sets you in the best of moods for the week. This had been my routine for months and my productivity was amazing. The boss was happy that I showed up a few minutes late because I was on fire!

Sure, you might think “ah! Yoga! Yoga Pants! You like them asses!” Nah-ah. I seriously crave the energy and happiness I got after finishing a sweaty Vinyasa and the Savasana that centered me. Sure, the teacher, Sophia, was hands-down pretty, not cute, pretty. Like your-cock-will-twitch-when-she-smiles pretty. With curves enough to satisfy to anyone with hands, and a gloriously toned 30’s years old body. Yeah, yeah, sure, her ass looked amazeballs in her yoga pants, always purple Lululemon’s on Mondays. But I wasn’t looking, well, not too much. I had a life, and that tiny studio behind a strip mall is a sacred place for me, with no room for carnality. And then there was the fact that most of the time I was the only student attending early Mondays. Sophia is good, specially good on Mondays, like she knew what flow I needed to leave the studio high-fiving the air.

But one Monday, everything changed. We went from Winter to Spring. I got new tires for my Bimmer. I got a promotion. And the studio swapped the teacher under me. From a pretty Sophia, a 30-something woman, to Tessa, a 19 year-old college student. What. The. Actual. Fuck. A 19 year-old *child*? I’m a man in my 40’s, thankyouverymuch. I need a yoga teacher that doesn’t pack CapriSuns for breakfast. A teacher that knows fucking Sanskrit. A teacher that can make me sweat and force me to take a break to catch up my breath. I don’t want a girl that had just discovered that yoga pants are for practicing yoga. Jeeeez!

So, you see, I was completely sold by having a different teacher…not! A college student with a delicious milk chocolate skin, the Belgian kind, the one that’s been hit with tariffs and that’s forbidden in 20 States because it’s so good. A college student with a hair that was curly and golden like a sunrise. A college student with eyes so dark that you can see your reflection in them. With a smile that lights up your day. And a toned and curvy body, with plenty of curves, dangerously firm curves. Suuuure, she’s beautiful. But yoga is more than looking fucking awesome in tight clothes.

Let’s humor her, I mean, I got up when it was still dark 2 time zones behind me, when the city is so empty that driving at 80 and running all the lights is the name of the game. So let’s see what Tessa’s got, let’s give her one chance. I’m the only student today, she might get intimidated by this old fart that can move. Wonderful.

(Read with French accent: thirty minutes later) I was panting and sweating and exhilarated and high on endorphins all at once. She knew how to teach! She knew! Even her Sanskrit was good! Oh, Lord Shiva, please pardon my not-yogic-at-all lack of faith in her! My heart was happy!

When her class finished I was all giddy. My thankful bow came from the bottom of my heart. “Namaste Tessa! This has been amazing!” Her blinding smile hit me “Thank you, I’m glad you liked it!”.

Next Monday, my fears gone, I was oh so ready for her class! No traffic light was respected. I broke my track record on the home-to-yoga circuit in Smalltown USA. There were three of us students, all professionals. The other two students came to class on and off, as their schedule allowed. One had her own massage studio, the other taught at the local college. Of course, Tessa crushed it. Again. From the warm up, to the build up, to the peak pose, to try some balances, to the cool down and Savasana. We three were all sweaty smiles after class, our chests rising and lowering, trying to recover from the exercise. Then, Tessa got up and offered neck alignments, we all agreed. When it was my turn, her “May I touch you?”, got a “yes, please” from me. That. Felt. Good. And I got to smell Tessa up close. No, I’m no pervert, well, maybe a little. But her being so close I could smell her coconut lotion mixed with sweat. It was better than a lavender cloth, if you know what I’m talking about. And I agreed for her to touch me.

The following week, in the middle of practice, I felt her adjusting my down-dog, pulling my hips higher and backwards. It was startling. Mostly because I practice almost always with my eyes closed. I try to get my Zen-shit and detach from everything. Also, it challenges my balance, which makes me work harder. So believe me it was unexpected. I didn’t hear her approach me and I didn’t hear ask for permission. But the slight posture change was on point, 10/10. “Thank you” I whispered while trying to catch my breath. After class, she told me that I had a nice stablished practice like this “Jacques, you have a beautiful stablished practice. Is this how you say your name?”. (It’s not my fault I was born in France, sue my parents if you wish, and that in America everybody is afraid to say my name. Anyway, where was I? oh, yes) “Thank you, and yes, that’s how you say it” (I was a liar, it wasn’t *exactly* how you say it, but oh well.) The fact that Tessa is so beautiful, she was so close to me (less than the preceptive 3 feet according to our Founding Fathers), her yoga attire was tight, and she told me “*Jacques, something something you’re beautiful”* (or that’s what I understood) it hit me. Hard. Was I falling for the teacher-student power game? Nahhh. Or was I? That week I was a bit out of sorts. I wasn’t used to (come on, say it) fall for college students. I like women with experience, that know what they want, that had been around the block a few times. A kid that could be my kid? Nahhh. Or was I? Jacques? Dude, wake the fuck up, let go of this shit.

So that weekend I partied hard, ended up with a grown-ass woman that fell for my accent, my charm and my singleness, and ended up at her place and properly fucked each other’s brains out. She knew how she wanted her pussy eaten, knew what she needed to cum, where she wanted my dick, was fine with some of my kinks and knew how to suck my dick while fondling my boys. Like I said, I partied hard.

Monday morning I still could taste Melanie’s clit. There was nothing that a college student could do to me, I was sexed-out. That day I was the only student and was ready to enter the Zen zone, and no amount of tight yoga pants enveloping milk-chocolate skin will derail me.

Meanwhile, Tessa had discovered the AC controls and turned on the heat, literally, to 85°. “Let’s do a hot vinyasa today”. With an early Spring chill outside, it was a great idea. She placed an extra bottle of water by my mat, so I knew it was a serious class. She made me move faster and deeper than in other classes. It was like I’d gained extra flexibility. I had to keep my eyes open more often than usual, so quick was her flow. And with my eyes open, it was difficult not to see her (damn my soul) perfect body, her sweat going where I’d love to go (*no, no, bad bad dog*!) and her voice making me move like a puppet master. Almost at the end of the class she cued me to Half Moon after Warrior 2. I got in there and, shit, seeing her on the corner of my eye broke my Zen-shit and I wobbled. She came over quickly and stabilized me. She was behind me, her torso (and her wonderful breasts, *no, no, bad bad bad dogie*) stuck to my back (where are my back hands when I need them? I’ve had plenty of radiation in my life! I DEMAND hands in my back!), one hand holding my extended arm, the other holding my raised leg by the thigh. And her head just inches from mine. Trying not to fall over her, trying not to pop a bonner and trying not to turn my head and kiss her luscious lips was too much for me. “I can’t! I said, “You got this!”, she said. But this wasn’t a he-said-she-said situation. It was a he-said-he-means-it situation. I had to take a break, she let me go and I plopped down and got into child’s pose. Firstly, because this is the pose you take when you’re spent. Secondly, because like this I couldn’t see her. And thirdly, if I popped a bonner she wouldn’t see it. She came over, tapped my back and uttered “are you ok?”, with a concerned voice. Trying to normalize my breath I said “I’m OK, I just pushed myself too hard” (I’m a fucking genius. *Bad bad bad really bad dog!* Push? Hard? Seriously?). “You always do. Yoga is more than the physical, you need to let go of your ego, and be you, in the now. Let me know if you need anything”. The last 10 minutes I stayed in Child’s Pose, trying to erase from my brain everything that I felt, second by second, when she helped me on my falling Half Moon. Of course, I couldn’t. That day I left quickly, muttering something about a meeting. But I was running away like Knights from Monty Python’s Camelot when they meet the French. I didn’t want to confront my feelings.

Do you want to know how next Mondays went?