Yoga and the Art of Stretching

I was at hot yoga today, stretching. The pain hit first — that deep, aching pull from muscles unused to movement. The sweat followed. Then came the self-doubt. I don’t stretch like I used to. I haven’t been taking care of my body the way I should. I stumbled while everyone else held perfect poses, statuesque. I went from private humiliation to full-on group shame. They didn’t care — but the voices in my head did.

So I retreated — child’s pose. The most humbling of positions. Knees folded, forehead to mat, arms stretched forward. Less a yoga move now, more a gesture of surrender — to the teacher, the class, the gods.

I let my ass stay raised. At this point, it was all I had left. Did it curve enough for the gorgeous, toned man behind me to notice? I hoped he was looking. I hoped my ass said what my face wouldn’t dare: Help me feel sexy again.

There was a familiar pain down there. Not injury — just… a throbbing sensation. And I realized: I’d spent yesterday evening training a different muscle. A deeper one. One toy after another, each larger than the last — like Goldilocks, but sluttier. Until a blockage. My ass wouldn’t stretch further. I tried. I inhaled the poppers. I tried again. It stretched some more. I had to decide when enough was enough.

Like now.

That pain, too, was stretch. That ache, too, was progress.

I once read that humility is a kind of pleasurable pain — something rare, and maybe even precious. I think they were right. Stretching hurts, but it’s also a kind of worship. The body trembles before surrender. But in that surrender, something sacred cracks open. A silence, a stillness, maybe even a kind of god.

Yoga teaches flexibility. So does anal play. But not only that. Both quiet the chatterbox inside. They force me to listen to my body — to slow down, to be patient. The more you open, the more you can hold.

One day I’ll do a full split. One day, I’ll open even wider — in body, in spirit, maybe even in ass.