Cardi V

Her Story

My phone buzzes on the mat and I know it's you before I look. That specific tone you set just for my notifications. I'm still holding downward dog, sweat tracing the curve of my spine, and the message makes me hold the pose longer than my muscles want. Because I'm picturing you watching me. You know how yoga gets me. The focus, the breath, the way I have to slow everything down until my body is just sensation and intention. But tonight I can't keep the pace slow. Every stretch makes me think about your hands on me after class — the way you'd trace each muscle group I just worked, treating my body like something you wanted to learn by touch. I imagine you'd start at my feet, because you're thorough. Kneading the arch, pressing into the tension I still carry there. Then you'd work up — calf, hamstring, hip — and by the time you reached my waist I'd be gasping, holding your wrist, pulling your fingers where I actually need them. Not as worship anymore. As claim. That's the thing about body worship with you — it's never just reverence. It's you cataloging every inch so you know exactly where to push, where to press, where I'll buck into your mouth. I want you to kneel behind me in child's pose and work me open with your tongue while I try to keep breathing. I want you to flip me onto my back and trace that line from my navel down, your mouth following. I want you to learn every sound I make until you can map pleasure by my pitch. You should come over. My mat's still warm and I have a strap I've been meaning to break in. I bet you ten minutes that you can't stay quiet while I show you exactly which stretch I've been holding for you.