One more naked yoga story...

I'm just tryin' to catch ya all up.

When I went to my first yoga class, there was a guest teacher, "Joe", who happened to also be the cute guy with the shaved balls and the trimmed pubes in Sunday's class. And I liked the idea of doing a class midweek when I really needed the clarity.

A quick real note about the HNY: I'm really loving it. It is spiritual and it allows me to find my center. The thing about being naked is that I don't have to think about what I'm wearing and I can just be. And when I can just focus inward, listen to the sound of my yogi's voice and just be...I feel the most in touch with myself (no pun intended) that I have all week. The stories are just my entertaining ways of sharing the twisted things that occur to me.

So I get there and this time there's a little more light in the room. I rush in because I'm running late, I slap my 20 bucks on the counter and introduce myself to the teacher, who I'll call Gene. Gene is hot, y'all. He must be in his 40s somewhere and he's lean, muscular and he's got a big one. Just in case you were wondering. Most of my friends usually ask the question within the first 10 seconds of me telling them I'm doing Nude Yoga: "Are there lots of big dicks in class?"

And, by the way, I walked in and felt like I stumbled into Algebra class when I was supposed to be in Geometry because it was definitely the "show-ers" group, if you know what I mean. As in, I'm a grower not a shower (which in fact I am). So I just laid back and enjoyed and started my practice.

I don't know about you, but I usually expect my yogi to have a pretty soothing voice with a bit of a New Agey twang to it. Joe's voice was authoratative but soft. The yoga teacher on Sunday's voice was very reassuring and positive. This guy was straight up from Williamsburg and not the Williamsburg of today, but the Williamsburg of Barbra Streisand and Joy Behar. The Williamsburg of poor old school Italians and Jews. In other words, he spoke classic Brooklynese. Maybe instead of calling him Gene, I should call him Johnny Knuckles, because he walked like a bit of a street thug as well. A street thug with impeccable posture.

"All right, yous guys. We're gonna do da downwahd dawg."

Oh my God, he's Tony Danza. He's getting a new alias.

So Danza's instructing and swinging about..."Please adjust me", I keep thinking. And he does. But I don't think he's enjoying it.

Thankfully the music's soft and soothing, but it's not like Yanni muzak played with a pan flute.

"Do ya know who dis is?" Okay, the Tony Manero shoulder shrug was a bit much. "Come on, yous! Dis probably came out before you wa born! It's Fleetwood Mac, but before Lindsey and Stevie joined. The first album. 1969."

Is this yoga? Fleetwood Mac trivia? Brooklynese?

I open my eyes. I see his schlong in front of me. Yep, it's yoga.

Besides the entertainment value, it was actually a great class. We stretched a lot and it seemed to flow. This dude wasn't messing around. He did a refresher on sun salutations for the new guys...boom boom boom. This class wasn't necessarily for the advanced guy, but it was definitely for the experienced one. I was sweating and not really thinking about how overworked I felt or how stressed out I've been. I forgot all about that and just focused in on the sound of Danza's voice. Guiding me through my Warrior poses, my flows, my Yoga abs and my balance postures.

It's kind of like all of your cravings all at once. A chicken hard shell taco and Peppermint ice cream and pepperoni pizza and french fries all as one spectacular oddly satisfying meal that doesn't seem to go together. Such is the Brooklyn yogi, the Fleetwood Mac, the muscular wirey bodied students, the clarity and simplicity of yoga and nudity.

Great tastes that don't seem to go together, but are great together.

I think I found my class.