The hotel's pre-dinner free yoga class was only sparsely attended - one stunning redhead, one older-but-not-elderly woman, plus two brunettes and a couple of men obviously paired with them. Plus Herman, of course.
The instructor was a slender blond young woman, pretty, well-trained, a good teacher. Nice sequences of poses, good corrections. She was also a fiend for inversions – the class was now over 8 minutes into a ten-minute headstand. Because of his experience, the instructor had put him – the only student so chosen – on her own side of the room, so they were facing the gaggle of students.
Herman wasn't close to being tired yet – he was used to this, and enjoying the view. In fact, he was quite happy with the effects of gravity-reversal in headstand on the women's breasts. Shapes and textures- regardless of the owner's age - altered in unusual ways. He let his eyes roam, trying to be discreet, expecting that the other less experienced students were probably quivering by now and therefore preoccupied with just staying vertically upside down.
The two younger brunettes dropped first. Then their two men. A minute later the buxom young red-head he'd been watching most closely. The instructor came down, stood watching.
That left Herman and the older woman. He hadn't paid her much attention during the quick round of first-name introductions – Anita something, Anita Goldberg he thought – her signature was on the sign-in sheet just above his own. Pleasant, friendly, obviously well-educated and intelligent were his thirty-second impressions. Anita was considerably older than he, and built with Jewish-momma solidity, attractively thick-bodied without going to fat, solid wide hips, perhaps five foot four, five-five max. She was also seriously busty and carried them high – higher by far than usual for someone her age. And, too, of all the women in class her breasts were the largest, yet whilst inverted they deformed the least.
Herman studied her for a few seconds every now and then, face to face, upside down. Occasionally their eyes would meet, she seemed to smile slightly although it was hard to tell, inverted. Even at her age she was genuinely pretty, though, of that he was certain. Most likely as a young women she had been a real beauty. At her age and weight she should be DONE with headstand by now, long-since down, he thought.
More discreet study. She had very-carefully-coifed mid-length gray hair – when she went upside-down, it had shifted somewhat less than had her breasts - to the extent such a comparison is possible. Oddly, although obviously decades older than the rest of the class, she was the only woman student who chose to wear shorts so that the instructor could see muscles and joints clearly. Such clothes were one subtle mark of a more serious student. Her exposed skin was everywhere taut, even the backs of thighs and knees. Not just taut, but a simply gorgeous texture, especially on her face – Herman had seen the redhead, herself over-tanned already at twenty-something, taking second and third envious glances during warm-ups. Not a trace of arm-wattles. Her face was almost unlined. Perfect teeth behind nicely shaped lips carrying just a trace of pale lipstick, her only visible makeup. No jewelry at all.
He wondered what her actual age was? Clearly well beyond his own 36, but how much was a mystery – that mystery being, he knew, precisely what women at her age most wanted to accomplish!
The two of them finally came down at the instructor's order, and Anita's breasts resumed a more normal shape and hang as the class all stood. If she'd distributed the same mass and measurements on a 6-inch-taller frame, she might have approached his "ideal" – although he really had no such Platonic woman-image. He just liked women in all their variety. For all his notice of Anita, as the class stood with gravity the right way round again, he found the redhead more distracting.
At class-end during the cleanup melee he considered briefly which, if any, of the women he might hit on if he could generate a reason – the redhead was his obvious choice if he had to pick but she did seem a bit stand-offish. At any rate, Herman rejected the idea as being inappropriate, rude, and probably unproductive anyhow. Hotels really were not as good a hunting ground as is often portrayed – certainly not this older beachside businessmen's hotel. Besides, he was between significant relationships and not really eager to re-start the process – which really meant just that he was not yet excruciatingly horny.
Several of the students joined him in the elevator, punched buttons, none higher than 20. He reached for the high thirties, looked around enquiringly. Anita smiled at him and said "Thirty-nine please."
"Mine, too" he replied. Thirty-nine was largely reserved by the hotel for frequent guests who had developed a long-term habit of staying there – as had Herman. But he'd never encountered Anita before, of that he was sure.
Alone together enroute from 20 to 39 they complimented one another on the long headstand. He asked casually "See you tomorrow for more? I'm going to take the six AM class instead of the PM."
She shrugged, smiled at him and said "Certainly. I'm free, it's a little vacation, my schedule is open. I can do either class, so if you'll get up early, in time for it, so will I. Just promise you won't fink out on me! It's nice to have a familiar face in class."
He promised.
He handed her through the elevator door – she moved with a subtle dancer-like grace. Their rooms were at the same end of the single long hallway that ran parallel to the beach across the street. His room faced the ocean, hers inland towards the city and its framework of distant mountains. They entered their rooms simultaneously, with a short goodbye and reminders not to forget their appointment. After years of visits, Herman knew his way around the neighborhood. He went out for dinner (Cuban – a personal favorite) and returned with a bottle of fine merlot, expecting a slow and contemplative finish to his long day.
He stripped, showered, did a quick razor touch-up of his shaved crotch, a little erotic fillip he'd indulged in since age 20. Then it was just jockey-shorts, the hotel's robe, and the wine.
Nine PM, half a glass into his wine, he was sitting on his balcony facing the full moon and its glittering moonpath, with the sweep of the city wrapping outwards to the limit of visibility both left and right, when the city vanished. From horizon to horizon the lights blinked out simultaneously with a synchronized abruptness that was visceral, almost audible.
He snorted to himself – Mother Nature, probably, just showing who is really in charge. He didn't envy the city's power engineers one bit.
The full moon was so bright he could almost see colors. It was fairly low already, and shined right into his room now, illuminating it reasonably well, but he went and got his emergency flashlight from his briefcase, checked it. The batteries were new, it worked fine.
