I remember the moment it happened — the single spark that set my body aflame. Cecelia stood behind me on the Pilates reformer and pressed her legs into my back, her hands into my shoulders. The strength of her long, lean limbs drove me into submission. Her perfectly-highlighted blonde hair tickled the back of my neck. “Connect your pubic bone to your sternum. Hold it.”
Her voice was deep, throaty. “Even while I’m pushing you — hold it. And breathe.” But I could not breathe. There was no oxygen left in the room. It had been consumed by her touch, her fire. Spontaneous combustion. My chest heaved with the weight of this recognition. It felt simultaneously familiar and forbidden, known and mysterious, natural and foreign. I searched for air as every nerve in my body shouted, This! This is who you are. This is who you’ve always been.
More, here.
