Confessions of a yogi wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Though the disciplines of posture, breathing, diet and mental concentration seem to produce an experience of enlightenment and illumination, I have decided instead that I’d rather be a full-time spy.
In my top secret non-yogi life I am a sniper. I also work for the “agency” and, like Claire Danes in Homeland, I am a beautiful bundle of contradictions that include great puzzle-solving skills, hot make-out sessions with enemies I have fallen in love with, and a proclivity toward self-medication.
Growing up on a farm in Texas was the perfect training ground for a special agent ninja such as myself. I had to surmount the critical views of the conservative south and endure strength training against boys in boots who would gladly help you haul hay in order to take a roll in it by night’s end.
Armed with a rifle and the first amendment I was proficient in target practice—both armed and psychological. This training proved invaluable as my duties with the agency required a transition to NYC as an actress (the perfect cover, really) before moving to a small beachside town on a mission of sexual revolution… aka, yoga. Because everybody knows yoga is really a sex cult.
In this secret life of a southern femme fatale the story starts something like this…
She can remember most of them by name. A few, even their last. Mostly, she can bring them into view if she can remember where they were or how they smelled. There were few things to do in the country. She never saw herself as a country wife with saddles in the bedroom and horseshoes on the kitchen cabinets.
She tried rodeo, show cattle, and judged everything from livestock to grass. Anything to fit into her environment. She was in every club, played all the sports, and knew all the latest gossip.
People always told her things because she made them believe they could trust her.
She could do most ranch work, wield a saw, and ride horseback. Still she was terribly unsatisfied. This is when the agency first took notice of her. People always interested her. Families, houses, their jobs and friends. She wanted to know what made each of them tick.
Men adored her. Young men. Old men. Married men. Only one ever pulled away from her. He pulled her drunk into the loft of a barn, kissed her and riled her up, pinned her down and stopped. “Tell me what you want,” he said. This was the only time she was caught unaware. He was a brilliant secret agent. She would remember him always.
They all tasted different. She remembers how each of them dressed and how they liked to kiss. Some where terrible, some aggressive, some were plain and boring and she considered it a waste of energy. She asked one of them once “if he was in yet.” He was almost finished.
She knew each of their goals, their secrets, their dreams. She knew they simply craved attention and were searching for something beyond themselves. She recognized this was a useful tool that could be leveraged. Some simply flung their bodies over her as they quenched their passionate thirst unaware that her mission included destroying some of them. A few came back for seconds. She learned to suck a man with stealth precision. She would stop short of providing satisfaction on occasion because they didn’t deserve it—since they were not providing critical nationally important information.
She detested being underestimated. She listened to what they wanted, she listened, she improved. She could look at a man and make him feel wanted. She knows when to speak and how to squirm. She knows when to giggle and gasp, when to say harder, and when to catch her breath.
She’d been an actress. By now she had become an Agent. She took advantage of their desires in order to serve the greater good. Her country would always count on her secret sacrifices.
These memories wash over me in my silent contemplation as do many more from years on assignment in the city. I have been fortunate enough to stop several terrorist attacks and there were only two near misses that led to unfortunate heartbreak.
All in all there have been few times when I have forgotten myself and slipped back into the “love & light” mantra of the yogis or have been glamored by the sexual undertones and promises of the practice. Because everybody knows yoga is really a sex cult.
Thankfully, my handlers in Washington remind me that the yogi wolf in sheep’s clothing is just an act; that I had better remember not to get sidetracked from the real mission at hand.
Nobody can actually be that loving after all. They help me from traveling too far down into the yoga rabbit hole where I might actually start believing in all that self-help enlightenment malarky.
Yes, today the sky is blue and the wind whips through my hair as I polish my weapons and await my next mission. I am far too powerful, too well trained to sit around a yoga studio and pretend to care anymore so hear me loud and clear: I quit yoga.
My sights are set and by the time you hear me—if in fact you ever do—I will have already placed a well aimed bullet in the target of my choice. There is no use running, my sweet yogis. I am a much better aim than you think & I’ve got the ninja skills to prove it.
Editor: Andrea B.
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