Step Eleven of The 100 Steps to Sexual Enlightenment reads:
> "Align your breath with your pleasure. Through tantric yoga, awaken the root of your desire and unleash your sacred inner beast."
Maxie, ever the scholar of smut and self-growth, had circled this chapter in glitter pen and underlined it twice.
"Finally," she said aloud. "A group activity that doesn't end with someone crying or covered in whipped cream."
Her friend Carla simply replied: "You don't own yoga pants."
Maxie corrected this by visiting the nearest spiritual athleisure boutique and investing in the tightest pair of purple leggings humanity had ever created. They squeaked when she walked. She named them Destiny.
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The Class: Sexy Stretch and Soul Awakening
Maxie signed up for "Tantric Flow Yoga for Radiant Feminine Energies" at the most overpriced wellness studio in town: Breathe Into It. The entrance featured a life-size statue of a naked woman hugging a fern. Inside smelled like incense, regret, and organic coconut oil.
The instructor, Saffron Moon, was a wafting creature in gauze who smelled faintly of sage and smugness. Her voice was soft like a silk bra whispering secrets.
"Welcome, radiant goddesses," she breathed. "Let us begin by inhaling the fire of our wombs and exhaling the shame of our mothers."
Maxie, seated between a woman named Starbean and a guy named Chad who definitely wasn't there for enlightenment, struggled to keep a straight face.
They began with breathing. Deep, sexy breathing. Maxie accidentally made eye contact with Chad during a particularly forceful exhale and felt like she'd proposed marriage.
Then came the stretches. Slow, sensual movements designed to release tension and stimulate arousal. The soundtrack? Whale songs remixed with moaning monks. It was oddly effective.
By the time they got to the pelvic pulse bridge pose, Maxie was actively vibrating with laughter and trying to clench her abs. Saffron Moon encouraged them to "gently rock their hips as if summoning their inner serpents."
Maxie felt like she was summoning a pervy snake demon.
But then came the mantra.
"Repeat after me," Saffron whispered. "I am the temple. I am the flame. I am the pleasure I seek."
Maxie whispered it back.
The room hummed. The mood deepened. The lighting dimmed to a sensual lavender. The heating floor kicked in. Maxie's thighs began to sweat independently.
And then the pose changed.
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The Disaster: Downward Dog of Doom
Downward dog. Simple. Classic. Maxie had done it before, sort of. Usually when trying to find the TV remote under the couch.
But this time, as she pressed her palms to the mat and lifted her hips skyward, something slipped.
The yoga mat. Her grip. Her dignity.
She let out a very unspiritual yelp and crashed down onto Chad.
Chad made a sound like a whoopee cushion filled with protein shakes.
Starbean shrieked. Saffron Moon gasped. Someone farted. It might have been Maxie. Or Chad. Or the studio floor. Regardless, it was loud, and it echoed.
Maxie landed in a tangle of limbs, incense smoke, and mortification.
"I think I just saw my past lives," Chad groaned.
"Were they doing squats?" Maxie muttered, unable to untangle her leg from his.
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The Recovery: Inner Flame and Outer Shame
Maxie rolled off Chad and back onto her mat, face flushed and thighs trembling.
"It's okay," Saffron Moon said gently, stepping over her body. "Sometimes the body releases in unexpected ways."
"Mine released a whole symphony," Maxie muttered.
Saffron placed a crystal on Maxie's forehead and whispered something in Sanskrit or possibly gibberish.
Still, Maxie pushed through. Warrior pose. Cat-cow. The sacred butterfly. Her thighs burned. Her mind swirled. Her leggings squeaked like a haunted accordion.
By the time they reached the final pose—the "Lotus of Longing"—Maxie was spiritually awakened, physically exhausted, and slightly horny.
The class ended in a circle of gratitude.
Everyone held hands.
Maxie held Chad's. He winked.
She did not wink back.
Instead, she smiled serenely like a goddess who definitely didn't elbow someone in the groin thirty minutes earlier.
---
Later: The Enlightened Afterglow (And Ice Packs)
That night, Maxie lay in a bath of Epsom salts and lavender regrets.
She'd pulled something. Maybe a hamstring. Maybe her ego.
But she couldn't deny it: something had shifted.
She felt centered. Calm. A little smug.
She re-read Step Eleven. She lit a candle. She considered lighting a joint.
And when she stood naked in front of her mirror later and did the sacred butterfly stretch just for herself, her thighs trembled in appreciation.
"I am the temple," she whispered.
Then accidentally knocked over a candle and set her bra on fire.
She put it out with a wet towel, slipped on the bathmat, and gave herself a minor concussion.
She smiled through the dizziness.
"Still counts," she murmured.
---
Her journal entry that night:
> Step Eleven: My thighs are powerful and mildly flammable.
I unleashed my inner beast. She pulled a groin, insulted a yogi, and now demands bubble baths.
I think I understand tantric enlightenment. It's when your soul says "Ommm" and your thighs say "Ow."
---
And thus, Maxie Langford took one more triumphant, clumsy, flaming step toward sexual transcendence.
Tomorrow? Breathwork. Which sounded harmless.
But then again, so did yoga.