A Field of Vaginas...

Most people actually went to work in the late 1980’s. I’m not just saying that they had jobs, but that most people drove somewhere, to an office or a physical place of some kind, for their employment. Those were pre-internet days when only a handful of people worked at home. The parking lots of stores and malls weren’t filled with cars the way they are today.

Given the fact that my partner and I owned our own business, we were among the few men that were able to set our own hours and be out and about during the day. Mark and I were among only a handful of regular guys working out every weekday morning at The Sporting Club. By “regular guys” I mean non-Redskins football players. There were lots of them too, along with an assortment of retired, rich guys.

Very upscale, The Sporting Club was the shit back then. A huge facility offering cutting edge new machines and equipment. They had a café, juice bar, babysitting rooms, sauna, lounge, and all the latest workout gear and supplements. Handsome young men and cute girls wearing Sporting Club uniforms were everywhere, coaching, training & acting as eye candy for the crowd.

Without question though, the main draw was the women’s 10am yoga class.

 Packed full of pretty girls in skin tight yoga gear. Yuppies, trophy wives, rich girls, society ladies, and single women on the prowl for a Redskin or a sugar daddy. They were locked and loaded, hair and make-up primed for a kill shot.

At 10am, they took the field on the main floor in a basketball sized room fitted wall to wall with a carpet of blue rubber. The open balcony above was crowded with weight machines and cardio equipment that bellied up to the railing, looking directly down onto the yoga floor. The edge of the balcony was packed tight with elliptical machines, stair steppers, gliders, and any other kind of cardio machine that allowed men upright exercise while almost leaning over the rail itself. By 9:50am, Monday through Friday, those machines were packed. No more room at the Inn. Elbow to elbow, men exercised casually, waiting for the women’s yoga class to kick off below.

 Sure, the guys loved to watch the girls, but that was no ordinary yoga class. Aside from the fact that it was packed with stunning women on the prowl, most ladies were too vain to allow anything other than smooth lines under their leotards. No panties and no bras unless absolutely necessary, even then the most minimal bras possible. There was little need for bras, no bouncing in that class, just lots of slow stretching.

The ladies pretended to ignore the men above, a whir of cardio machines becoming louder and more desperate with each coordinated stretch of skin tight nylon and polyester on the yoga floor. The men moved faster, like a tribe ready to attack, all eyes locked down on the yoga Rockettes. Of course the women knew they were the show, that’s why they were

there. But their main move, that they repeated many times throughout their class, was on their backs, legs stretched wide open like an invitation, pointing their lady parts skyward.

The girls knew what they were doing but I never did figure out if they knew exactly why it was as wildly popular as it became. Sure, they were opening up wide and pretending they didn’t see or hear the men going into overdrive above them, but it was more than that. What the ladies didn’t realize was that the lack of panties combined with the lycra stretched out as wide as it could get, made the concealment factor null and void. Like looking down through

a screen door. From a little distance, all the men saw was a field of vaginas. All shapes and sizes.

Landing strips, heart-shaped trims, commando, clamando, vajayjay alfresco.

I don’t think the women ever realized just how completely ineffective their Spandex was at concealing anything when the material is stretched wide open, especially when viewed from a distance of around 25 feet, from the height of a balcony, for instance. Like using a kitchen strainer to hide an avocado. Doesn't work.

Word spread, that class became crazy popular, more men than women. Guys started showing up at 9am for the 10am class, just so they could claim a cardio machine at the edge of the balcony. Something had to give. Maybe a fight over an elliptical machine? A catastrophic failure of crotch spandex that could blow the whole cover? We never knew. Mark and I closed our business, going in new directions, and both of us moved out of the area.

 One thing is for sure though.

“Raindrops on roses

And whiskers on kittens

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things…”

That’s all well and good for Julie Andrews, but for men? A field of vaginas would pretty much be at the top of the list.